He had to do something, but felt oddly paralyzed. The bouncer was right behind him and seemed to be... moving slower? His thick hands were only a couple feet away from locking onto Wilder's shoulders, and closing in, though now they traversed the short distance like stones through water: inexorable and lazy.

The bulldog's face, too, was distorted, caught midway between a yell and that strange kind of smile many people get when met with conflict. And then Wilder felt the panic rise in his chest like magma. He looked to his hands, fingers splayed in the gravel, and saw veins popping and writhing around his knuckles. Dark hair thickened around his bare wrists and spread. His nails grew black and sharpened.

“No,” Wilder hissed. “It c...

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