The sound of the TV filled the apartment. He listened intently, even when he did not look at it. His head was low, his eyes fixed on his hands. Carefully, he tightened the last bandage around his wrists, leaving no trace of the skin under it.

“The police are investigating at this moment. The victim was a homeless man, age 28. The cause of death seems to have been a stab wound, which-”

Boris huffed and turned the TV off. He heard enough. He did not want to see the police tape on screen, or the dried blood on the pavement.
Because he would see it in person very soon. And that was sickening enough.
He only looked up when he heard a knock, faint but intentional. She was here.

“Coming.”

He took a package of tobacco off his table, and with one last resigned look in the mirror… he hanged his badge on his uniform. His hand hesitated for a second on the door handle, yet gripped it firmly in the end.
Seeing Maria there, leaning on the corridor of the apartment complex, it made him shiver to the core. However, he never showed it on his face or body. As always, he was supposed to be the stone-cold partner, the stern cop. All thought of him like that.
And she, always the sweet caring officer.

“Morning, Boris.” She tilted her hat with a sad smile, playfully apologetic. “I’m sorry they have assigned you this. Not something you want to see after breakfast.”

“Hmm.”

He walked past her, heading slowly towards the exit. Both got into their car, intent on reaching the train station. All the while, she gave him gentle worried glances. She knew he was off today, but she would not pinpoint what. Because she knew him better than anyone, yet only knew a small part of him.
If only she could know, she would not smile to him with that caring look.

—————————-

Inhale. Exhale. That was what he focused on. To any onlooker, he was just smoking, feeding his addiction. In reality, he was taking his chance to look away from the scene. The crime scene, which he did not need to look at; because he had created it.
It was ironic, with him being a cop. He was rotten, corrupt in his silence. But he had his motives, and he felt justified.
He could not be caught.
That thought kept him from confessing right then, in front of his peers. As much as he wished to be handcuffed or maybe shot, something kept him chained to his reluctance. Something that none would believe, a fact that he could not reveal.
Maria had been a close partner for years. The rest excused his detachment to his usual coldness; maybe lack of empathy for a probable drug addict dead in the street. But she knew; she knew that he had a deep sense of justice, an intense caring fire hidden under his unchanging expression.
Maria could tell he had something in his mind. However, luckily, she could not tell that it was a horrible truth, an act of murder.

“Saw something I can’t?”

“No.”

Short answer. It told her instantly that he did not want to chat. She pressured him while taking her gloves off casually.

“There was cocaine in his pocket. Strange that it’s still there if it was the motive of the killer.”

“Mugger didn’t expect a fight. Ran off scared after the scuffle.”

“Who mugs a homeless man, Boris?”

He glared towards the train tracks, snarling his answer.

“Another one, simple as that.” He threw his cigarette down to the floor, crushing it with his boot. “Narrow the suspects to beggars in the vicinity. Dealers too. Might have had a debt.”

He ignored her scolding frown at the thrown cigarette, something that he would have apologized for in any other occasion. She tried to say something, but he walked off. He got into his car, alone, leaving her to stay with the other cops.
As a loner as he was, he never did that.

—————————

It is easy to fool most that you are an asshole when that’s the only thing they believe you to be. Act indifferent, and to them, it will be the same as your thoughtful silence.
Face shadowed again, he crept through the night, exchanging the shadows of the street for the ones of the train station. Once more he ventured towards the scene, feeling all the more anxious, if possible. In the day, there were so many eyes that could have pierced him, yet one single glance now could condemn him.
He deserved it, but he could not allow it. Not yet.
Yet… that word made him doubt so much.
Not now, not ever? Could he fix this? Was there a cure?
Pace slowing in the dark tunnel, he reached for his arm. Breath halting, he dared look at the evidence of his first crime. The bandage had proven ineffective, useless against what grew in him.
Dark hair had already turned into black fur, growing erratically along his arm. His instinctive clenching of teeth reminded him that the fur was not the only thing changing. It was a good thing he never smiled.
That homeless man ruined his night, even more, to an extent he could not have imagined. The same dammed night he had to discover he was a carrier. Infected, with something that should mean sure death. However, that night in which he committed murder, he did not do so in the way another carrier would have done.
Any human who succumbs to the Trycholyssa virus did not hold their reason for more than a few hours. The first symptom, abnormal growth of hair. Three hours, eyes twist into what can only be described as animal-like. Five hours after that, they can call their minds and humanity goodbye. The pathogen could be detected a week in advance, dormant… and that was why no one ever got to maul anyone alive.
The disease was heavily monitored. It was years since any carrier was allowed to develop to such an extent. That happened when the sick get shot as soon as they come up positive.
The weekly mandatory test was tomorrow. He had to miss it, at any cost.
Because he was the first person ever to not lose it after the symptoms, the first human to hold the virus without going berserk. The murder was self-defense.
While he pondered his predicament, he had found himself past the police tape, past the spot where the corpse was found, and face to face with his destination and intent. His movements were lethargic, yet robotic and automatic.
Carefully, he moved the trash bin aside, the object he prayed would be enough to hide what he threw that night. His eyes narrowed, both relieved and disappointed that his coworkers did not notice it or bother to look more closely.
The switchblade still had his blood on it. As well as the one of the man he killed. The man who had to near him asking for a smoke, in the middle of the night, while he desperately tried to avoid every single soul in existence. The darn man who had to grab his sleeve and insist physically for his attention. The idiot who had to notice his eyes, which had been sharp and red. A dead giveaway of a deadly disease.
Years ago, it was not the government who scheduled the quick executions of the afflicted. It was the mobs. Anyone showed red eyes or abnormal growth of fur would get lynched, by all who saw it. Because the alternative was for the infected to wait, hide… and reach a point in which they would attack innocents on sight.
For that homeless man, Boris was just a ticking bomb, that could have imploded in that very moment.
A frantic push, a switchblade taken from where he kept his drugs. An aggressive but wobbly stance, non-fit for a fight yet all too intent on killing. His blood was the first to paint the blade when the beggar sliced forward with a hateful scared yell.
Then… somehow, he got hold of the blade. Maybe it was the disease, deep inside, really having a hold of him. Or maybe his all too real humanity, his own untainted instinct. Next thing he knew, the man was dead on the floor. None of his blood dropped onto the victim or floor. It was a faint cut. Even if the blood flowed out, the fur seemed to take it in, welcome it and keep it close.
This was the only dead giveaway… and with hurried steps, he disappeared back into the night with it.