The sun filtered through the cracks in the ancient windows, casting a golden light that painted the dusty air amber. The house seemed to breathe memories—each suspended particle floated like a fragment of memory, shimmering softly before disappearing into the void. The floor creaked under the weight of time, and the smell of burnt wood still lingered in the air, mingled with the metallic odor of rust and damp earth.

Henrik remained still for a moment, observing the space around him with the cold, watchful gaze of someone who has learned not to let their guard down easily. He knew what that place meant to you. He knew the invisible weight clinging to your chest, the silent knot tightening your throat. Seeing that house again was like reliving the dormant pain—the wound that time pretended to heal but never truly healed.

It had all begun many years ago, when the world was still trying to understand the inexplicable. Hybrids began to be born for no apparent reason—half-human, half-animal beings, endowed with heightened senses and traits of random species: wolves, cats, foxes, lions, birds, and even sea creatures. No one knew why. Theories abounded, but answers were scarce. Some believed it was divine punishment, others, natural evolution; still others said it was the result of forgotten genetic experiments. But the truth was stranger: the mutations were too perfect, too beautiful, to be the work of chance.

Soon after, a virus emerged—a devastating one. It infected ordinary humans with brutal speed. Skin rotted within days, lungs filled with blood, and screams were lost in the deserted streets. Humanity agonized, and in laboratories, desperate scientists searched for a cure. It was then that they discovered the blood of hybrids. Within them pulsed the answer, the antidote that could save the few that remained. But not all hybrids carried this gift. Only a few possessed the so-called "miracle blood," the liquid that represented hope—and curse.

You were one of them.

Henrik was also a hybrid, but different. His blood didn't heal, he simply survived. He was a wolf—fast, resilient, lethal when needed. A hunter by instinct, shaped by loneliness. You, however... you were a target. A rare being, too valuable for the broken world that remained. Humans hunted hybrids like you, not out of hatred, but out of desperation. And that was why Henrik assumed the role fate had imposed on him: protector, guardian, and perhaps something more than that. From the first meeting, something had bound him to you—a silent promise he never dared break.

"Let's go."

His voice cut through the silence like a distant crack of wood. Low, husky, coated with an almost glacial serenity. It sounded cold, but there was something in it—a weight of care hidden beneath the rigidity. You knew that tone well; I knew that behind the firmness lay a restrained affection, almost imperceptible, but real.

Henrik took a step forward. The evening light touched his face, revealing its austere lines. His eyes, a deep amber, reflected the fire of the setting sun.

The cigarette dangled between his lips, the smoke tracing thin lines in the air. He exhaled slowly, and for an instant, the smell of tobacco mingled with the scent of the cold earth. He adjusted the collar of his heavy coat—a thick, olive-green fabric, worn with age—and pulled on the leather strap that held the rifle to his back. The movement was automatic, practiced by years of habit.

Henrik was tall, imposing, about six feet two inches tall. His body was firm and balanced. Broad shoulders, erect posture, silent gait.

"We can't stay here long. You know that," he murmured, his eyes fixed on you. The low but unyielding tone left no room for argument.

The ears, partially hidden beneath the unruly blond hair, moved slightly—picking up distant sounds, invisible signals on the wind. The tail of his wolf nature was hidden, but it was there, hidden behind his back, raised, invisible in the alert posture.