The Lunar Curse: A Second Chance With Alpha Draven novel Chapter 189

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.

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~The Holding Wing~

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."

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