Ash had thought he was ready for winter. He’d dug himself a decent den, mapped the woods, learned which logs creaked under his weight and which creeks stayed shallow. Living wild had sounded so romantic in his head—crisp mornings, clean water, the sun warming, all that. The reality was… less glamorous. It made him realize how soft he’d been kept before. Not well kept—never that—but kept. Fed on time, no matter how tasteless the meals; warmed by humming vents; shut into concrete rooms with lights that never quite dimmed. He’d hated it, every second of it, but his body had gotten used to the predictability.

Out here nothing was predictable, and that was exactly why he stayed. Freedom, even sharp-toothed and frost-bitten, beat captivity every time.

Lately he’d been inching closer to the nearby town. Not enough to be seen—he knew too well how people could look at someone like him—but close enough to “borrow” from their stores when the forest grew stingy. He had to eat, after all.

Tonight he padded back through the trees with a stolen chicken, smug and salivating. The cold nipped at his ears, that dull scent on the windof oncoming snow curling through the branches. The forest was quiet in that way it got just before weather turned: breath held, shadows still.

His den waited not far ahead, half-hidden under tangled roots and dried leaves. This would be his first true test of whether it could hold against winter’s bite. Ash flicked his tail, confidence puffing him up despite the chill. He could handle it. He’d handle worse.

But first—he intended to feast.