Clive's vision whites out as long, curved teeth sink into the meat of his traps, pain narrowing to that one spot –– or, perhaps, growing so intense that the rest is ignorable by comparison. Still, the animal in him won't have it. By reflex alone, he digs in, grappling, as if he could tear the creature off him. Human muscle gives out quick, helpless under werewolf strength, but Ifrit's right arm yields nothing, growing hotter still.

Under the tussling, Clive's legs begin to elongate, his knees reversing. Above it, long curved horns begin to sprout from Clive's forehead. He tosses his head, perhaps just a thrash under Khoriya's teeth, perhaps to gore Khoriya in the face.