Grim Howlett's Arc

Chapter 2 of 5

Grim dragged a metal table into the mossy shack and set it against the back wall. Dust covered everything, but the stone fireplace still worked. He needed to start simple—figure out the basics before diving deeper. Coffee calmed the monster, but he didn't know which part mattered most. He lined up three different grinders on the table, each one rusted but functional. Coarse grounds first, then medium, then fine as powder. He brewed each batch the same way and drank them one after another. The finest grind hit hardest—his claws pulled back completely for almost a full minute. Grind size changed the effect. That was something. He wrote it down on a scrap of paper and pinned it to the wall. Next came water temperature. He boiled a kettle over the fireplace, then split it into three cups at different heats. The hottest brew made his chest feel hollow and calm. The lukewarm one barely touched the rage. He added another note to the wall. Heat mattered too. By the time the sun dropped below the tree line, Grim had filled half the wall with scribbled notes. Every test told him something new, but none of it explained why coffee worked in the first place. He stared at the papers and felt his fangs throb. The monster was already creeping back. He poured one more cup—hot, fine grind—and the calm returned. This shack was his answer. One test at a time, he'd crack it open. The next morning, Grim hauled the roaster outside and set it on a flat patch of ground. The thing was ridiculous—bright colors, twisted metal limbs, a face built into the drum that grinned at him with jagged teeth. But it worked, and that's what mattered. He'd been buying roasted beans up until now, but if roast level changed the effect like grind size did, he needed to control that too. He loaded raw beans into the drum and cranked the handle. The machine spun with a grinding screech, flames licking up from the base. Smoke poured out, thick and sharp. After ten minutes, he dumped the beans into a bowl. They were dark, almost burnt. He ground them fine, brewed them hot, and drank. The calm lasted ninety seconds—longer than anything yesterday. He loaded another batch and roasted them lighter this time. Forty seconds of calm. The darker roast hit harder. He wrote it down and stared at the roaster. Three variables now—grind, heat, roast. He was getting closer. But closer to what? Grim stared at his wall of notes and felt the familiar itch under his skin. He knew how to make coffee hit harder now, but he still didn't know why it worked at all. The answer wasn't in his shack. He locked the door and headed toward the museum at the edge of town. The building looked crooked, like something had grown it instead of built it. Inside, shelves sagged under the weight of old books and scrolls. Grim found the section on monster transformations and pulled down three volumes. He flipped through pages until he found entries about creatures like him—things caught between forms. One passage mentioned a wolf creature who ate only bitter herbs to keep the beast quiet. Another described a scaled thing that drank venom to stay calm. Different monsters, different substances. But they all had something. Grim slammed the book shut. Coffee wasn't special—it was just his thing. Whatever chemical lived in those beans, it matched whatever was broken inside him. He left the museum with more questions than answers, but at least now he knew where to look next. If other monsters had their own cures, maybe someone had written down why. He needed to track when the monster came back strongest. Grim climbed the spiral tower behind his shack and sat on the platform at the top. The structure twisted upward with odd angles and lunar designs carved into the rails. From up here, he could see everything—the shack, the roaster, the whole town beyond. He pulled out a notebook and checked the time. Two hours since his last cup. His claws were already starting to push through again. He wrote it down. Four hours later, the rage made his jaw ache. He drank another cup and climbed back up. The pattern repeated through the night. By dawn, he had a full page of notes showing exactly when the calm faded and when the monster returned. It wasn't random. The timing matched something, though he couldn't tell what yet. Grim spread all his notes across the table in the shack. Grind size, roast level, water heat, timing—each one a piece of something bigger. He stared at the papers until his eyes burned. The museum had shown him that other creatures had their own substances. His tests had shown him how to make coffee hit harder. The tower had shown him the monster followed a schedule. But none of it explained the core truth—why coffee stopped the transformation at all. He brewed one more cup, dark roast and fine grind, and felt the calm settle in. This was just the start. He had the tools now, the knowledge to keep testing. Somewhere in all these variables was the real answer, and he'd find it. One cup at a time.