The Lunar Curse: A Second Chance With Alpha Draven

Chapter 189: The Underground Lab I

(Third Person).

Far beneath the stone heart of Duskmoor, past unmarked stairways and iron doors that never opened from the outside, lay the truth the city would never speak of:

Section Nine.

The corridor smelled of cold metal, chemicals, and an undertone of raw, feral musk that clung to every wall like a stain.

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, pale and harsh, throwing hard-edged shadows onto smooth steel floors.

Here, nothing was accidental.

Nothing was kind.

Beyond the armoured checkpoint, a reinforced passage branched into two: to the left, the surgical theatre, and to the right, the holding cells — deep chambers of stone and steel, built to cage something far stronger than any ordinary prisoner.

And inside those cells, the "specimens" waited.

They weren’t fresh captures.

These were werewolves stolen months back: sedated, chained, and studied until even memory itself had started to fray under the weight of fear and poison.

Yet even now, though weakened, the savage spark in them hadn’t died.

---

~The Holding Wing~noveldrama

At the end of the hall, a broad-shouldered guard turned his key in a heavy lock. The door to Cell 12 clanged open, its echo rolling down the corridor like a warning.

Inside, a young male werewolf — barely past youth, ribs showing through his skin — raised his head, gold-flecked eyes narrowing.

Dried blood still matted his temple where he had slammed it against the bars, fighting restraint the night before.

A doctor in a sterile white coat stepped in, two assistants following. The doctor’s latex gloves creaked as he flexed his fingers around a thick syringe already filled with a dark red serum.

"Subject 12," he murmured, almost to himself, then cleared his throat. "You know the routine. Hold still."

The werewolf answered with a low, ragged growl.

The doctor didn’t flinch. Instead, he gave an order. "Begin."

The two assistants moved closer, one carrying a metal rod sparking faintly with electricity, the other holding a small injector of wolfsbane — the lab’s failsafe.

"Easy," one whispered, as if coaxing an animal.

But as the doctor reached for the werewolf’s arm, there was a sudden blur of motion.

A snarl ripped the air, savage and raw. The werewolf lunged forward, chains rattling like a struck bell, fangs bared.

His hand — gnarled with strain — shot forward, claws raking the doctor’s sleeve, tearing cloth and grazing skin.

The doctor cursed, stumbling back, eyes wide.

The assistant on the right reacted first, slamming the metal rod against the werewolf’s ribs. Blue light crackled, and the smell of burned flesh and singed fur filled the small space.

The werewolf howled, the sound low and hoarse, echoing through the corridor.

Still, he didn’t drop.

The other assistant lunged, driving the wolfsbane injector into his thigh.

The werewolf’s gasp almost drowned out the hiss of the liquid as his muscles locked up, seizing against the iron manacles.

Breath rasped from his throat, sharp and broken. His head drooped, but those eyes — hateful and alive—never closed.

Across the hall was the main lab.

Behind observation glass, rows of metal tables glinted under fluorescent light, each fitted with cuffs, straps, and drains in the floor for what leaked out.

A young female werewolf, barely older than a girl, lay strapped to one of the tables. Electrodes marked her temples; a thick leather belt pinned her chest.

A scientist peered into a monitor, voice low.

"Heart rate spiking. Increase sedative, but keep her conscious."

Another scientist adjusted a dial on a humming machine. The girl’s breath came faster, shallow and ragged. Tears leaked sideways down her face, mingling with grime.

The first scientist read from his notes. "Subject 18. Prior exposure to serum batch 4B failed. Attempting batch 5C. Proceed."

A thin needle plunged into the girl’s arm. For a moment, her eyes widened, golden irises flaring — then her limbs convulsed. The straps creaked under sudden strain.

"She won’t hold," an assistant warned.

But the scientist only watched, cold and clinical. "Record it all."

---

~The Cell Block~

Deeper still, behind heavier doors, the oldest captives waited.

They had learned the routine: the morning rounds, the questions barked in clipped tones, the smell of blood on stainless steel.

A few barely lifted their heads anymore. But even here, hatred burned — an ember waiting for breath.

One older wolf, grey streaking his hair, whispered in a voice cracked by thirst,

"One day... stone breaks. Chains fall."

No one answered, but some eyes flickered to him — hope and fear wrestling in silence.

---

Outside the cells, two scientists walked the hall, clipboards in hand. Their coats were white, but the cuffs were stained faintly with rust-coloured smears.

One muttered, glancing around. "They keep asking for more samples. Did you hear?"

The other nodded, voice low. "Senator Varron sent word. They want fresh tissue. But the Mayor forbade new hunts."

"So what now?"

"Use what we have," the scientist said grimly. "They won’t last much longer, but it will have to do. The hybrid trials must continue."

They walked on, leaving behind the low growl that pulsed out from the darkness.

---

At the observation deck, a figure in a lab coat — older, shoulders bowed by decades of compromise — stood looking through the glass.

Below, another test subject, an adult male, was strapped to a gurney, veins bulging from earlier injections.

The senior researcher’s voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried a weight heavier than any scalpel.

"Push them hard enough," he murmured to himself, "and even a wolf breaks. But break them too soon... and all that’s left is a corpse."

He made a note on his clipboard. "Balance. Always balance."

---

Beyond the cells and tables, past double-sealed doors marked "Authorized Personnel Only," lay a hidden lab few even among staff had clearance to enter.

Inside, tanks glowed with a dim, ominous light. Floating in them were things that had once been human, or wolf — or something between. Some lay still; others twitched with broken motions.

A single word glowed on a monitor in looping script:

HYBRIDIZATION PHASE 3.

The air smelled different here—colder, wrong. This was the city’s true secret:

Not content to simply kill wolves, they meant to become them. To take their strength, speed, and healing — but strip away the soul that made them living beings.

---

Hours later, the werewolf from Cell 12 lay on the stone floor, breath ragged. His muscles twitched from the wolfsbane’s bite.

Yet in his golden eyes, the fire still smouldered.

A guard glanced in, saw the hate still alive there, and a flicker of unease crossed his face. Then, he left.

---

In the dim halls of Section Nine, machines hummed, steel doors clicked shut, and behind every wall, the living remembered what it meant to be hunted.

No senators, no Brackham walking these floors today—only guards, doctors, and the grim silence of men who thought themselves above the creatures they dissected.

Yet even here, under stone and iron, the wolves still dreamed of moonlight and freedom.

And even sedated, the promise burned in every heartbeat:

One day, they will be free. And revenge will be taken.