The alley behind the old bar was quiet under the sickly yellow glow of a single streetlamp. Mr. Pickles had the adult bully pinned against the brick wall—a sneering, broad-shouldered man in his twenties who had spent weeks tormenting Tommy for being the short, blond-headed kid with braces. The man’s insults had been vicious and relentless. Now, Mr. Pickles’ gloved hands were buried deep in his throat, claws extended in his partial shift, tearing through flesh and cartilage with savage, deliberate brutality.

Blood sprayed across the alley as Mr. Pickles ripped out the man’s windpipe in one violent yank, then drove his fist repeatedly into the man’s face, shattering bone and teeth with wet, crunching impacts. The bully’s screams turned into choking gurgles, eyes bulging in terror as Mr. Pickles continued the onslaught—slashing, pounding, and crushing until the body was a broken, twitching ruin on the filthy ground.

“Such a pathetic, rude pest,” Mr. Pickles murmured, straightening his blood-spattered cardigan. His voice remained smooth and almost fatherly. “No one speaks to my boy that way.”

He knelt over the cooling corpse, tilting the ruined head to examine the glassy, lifeless eyes. A faint smile touched his lips. In the privacy of the shadows, his hunger stirred. With deliberate care, he unfastened his slacks and took the body with rough, possessive intensity—degrading whispers mixing with low grunts of primal satisfaction as he claimed what remained. The act was fierce and dominating, his dual nature bleeding through in the darkness.

When he finished, he cleaned himself meticulously with a handkerchief, then dragged the mangled remains deeper into the alley. A small ritual circle of black-petaled flowers appeared from his coat pocket. With whispered words and a spark from his occult lighter, unnatural blue-white flames erupted, consuming flesh and bone without smoke or sound, leaving only fine ash scattered on the night breeze.

Satisfied, Mr. Pickles shifted back into his harmless dog form for the walk home, floppy ears perked, tail wagging innocently. He slipped through the back door, transforming once more into his polished human shape before stepping into the living room where Tommy waited.

The boy looked up, eyes still a little red from earlier tears. Mr. Pickles knelt immediately, pulling Tommy into a warm, protective embrace, one hand gently stroking his blond hair.

“Hey there, my boy,” he said softly, voice full of love and reassurance. “That mean man who was picking on you? He won’t be bothering you again. Not ever. Daddy made sure of it.” He pressed a kiss to Tommy’s forehead, then stood, smiling brightly. “Now, how about some hot cocoa and your favorite cookies? I’ll tuck you in after and read you that story you like. Everything’s going to be perfect, son. Just you and me… always.”

His dark eyes gleamed with quiet satisfaction as he moved toward the kitchen, the faint scent of cedar and something sweeter, darker, trailing behind him.