Zoe's heart pounded as she stumbled out of the thick tree line, panting and mud-streaked. Her jeans were torn from brambles, her hands scratched from the wild underbrush. But none of that mattered. She had made it out of the forest.
The small buildings of Lagooncrest Isle's town came into view, and she didn't waste a second. She ran—through the winding lanes, past the sleepy cafés and quiet markets—straight to the modest brick police station sitting on the edge of the town square.
She shoved open the door, nearly crashing into the front desk.
"I need to speak to Officer Liam Mayers!" she shouted, startling the clerk behind the counter. "It's urgent! Please, someone—"
The clerk, a bored-looking officer in his late thirties, gave her a flat stare. "Officer Mayers isn't here."
"What?" Zoe's face dropped. "Where is he?"
"Out for field rounds. You can leave a message."
"No! I need to speak with him now!" she said, gripping the edge of the counter. "Please! It's an emergency—there's something happening in the woods! There are people in black cloaks—"
The officer raised a hand lazily. "Miss, calm down. We've already got enough prank reports during tourist season. If this is about the teenagers and that witch nonsense—"
"This isn't nonsense!" she snapped, voice trembling with frustration. "They're real! They tried to catch us—me and Brendon—please, just contact Liam, or anyone who'll believe me!"
But the desk officer merely sighed and looked away. "Take a seat. If it's important, someone will follow up."
Zoe looked around. A few other officers were at their desks, ignoring her completely. Her voice felt small in the sterile room, swallowed by indifference.
"Brendon…" she whispered to herself. "What if they caught him?"
She sat down in the waiting area, her knees shaking, fingers trembling as she stared at the clock ticking on the wall. Seconds felt like hours.
Please be okay…
---
Meanwhile, deep within the forest, Brendon's breath came steady and sharp. His boots crushed the underbrush as he led the cultists further from the center of their strange domain. Branches whipped at his shoulders, the smell of burning wood still clinging to the air behind him.
He darted past a crumbling stone arch draped in moss and brush, then veered hard left—toward the eastern coast. The sound of waves began to rise in the distance.
His sharp eyes scanned behind him. Five. Maybe six. Still following. Good.
He burst through the final edge of forest and onto the open sands of the eastern shore.
Moonlight bathed the wide clearing. The ocean hissed and roared to his right, stretching endlessly beneath a cloud-streaked sky. Wind tore through his hair as he stood still in the open, letting them catch up.
He could smell them now. The metallic tinge of sweat. The rank scent of something older—something foul. Cloaks fluttered as the cultists emerged from the trees, encircling him with drawn blades, staffs, and faces full of rage.
Brendon exhaled, low and steady. "You followed me out here," he said. "Your mistake."
One of the cloaked figures raised his staff. "You think you can escape the Rite? You saw what you weren't meant to see."
Another took a step forward. "We will feed your blood to our holy goddes, like all the others."
Brendon's lips curled into a cold, feral grin.
"You'll try."
And then—he let go.
Bones cracked as his posture shifted. His jacket tore slightly at the seams. Thickened muscle pressed under his skin. His fingers lengthened, nails darkening into claws. His eyes blazed a deep amber as his features warped—still an anthro, but lined with the unmistakable traits of something ancient.
Hair bristled along his jawline, and his teeth sharpened in his mouth.
Not an Anthro Wolf anymore. He is now a wild beast like sentient.
A primal force awakened.
One of the cultists staggered back. "It… it's the Big… Bad… Wolf!"
Brendon's growl was the only answer. In a blur, he leapt.
His claws slashed through the nearest man's arm, blood arcing through the air. Another cultist screamed as Brendon threw him bodily across the sand, the man's body crashing into a jagged rock.
They tried to retaliate. Staffs and daggers swung toward him.
Too slow.
Brendon ducked beneath a blade, grabbed the wielder's wrist, and twisted—bone snapped. With a roar, he slammed the cultist down into the sand, leaving a small crater from the force.
Another cultist lunged at him with a blade from behind—but Brendon's keen hearing betrayed him. He turned, snatched the man's wrist mid-air, and drove his claws deep into his gut. The cultist gasped, eyes wide, before crumpling at his feet.
Blood painted the shore.
Two remained. They hesitated, fear shaking their arms.
Brendon stood tall in the moonlight, fur matted, chest heaving, claws dripping. A beast cloaked in a man's outline. His yellow eyes glowed like wildfire.
He stepped forward. "Run."
They did.
He let them.
---
Far away, back at the station, Zoe's leg bounced with anxiety. No one had come to speak with her. She had tried calling Brendon again—no signal.
Finally, unable to sit still, she got up and walked to the counter once more.
"Please," she begged the officer, "just tell Liam—when he comes back—that Zoe Farrow is looking for him. That it's about Carlos. And Brendon's in danger."
The man sighed and nodded absently, clearly not listening.
She clenched her fists and turned away, frustration boiling inside her.
They don't care. No one here believes it. No one will help.
She stepped out into the cool night air, her heart still racing.
Then she looked up at the moon—and somewhere deep within the forest, a distant sound echoed.
A howl.
Not an animal's. Not fully human.
Something else.
And in her gut… Zoe knew it is him.
Brendon is still out there.
And the wolf has been let loose.