You were just playing fetch with yourself in the backyard- wolf ears perked, tail wagging, your fur still damp from the pool- when you feel it. A shift in the air. A scent.

Then a voice, low and steady: "That form suits you better." You turn. Two adults stand by the fence.. impossibly composed. Perfectly still. Their eyes glint like gold struck by moonlight. Wolves. Just like you. "But they treat you like a housepet," the man continues. "You're not meant to be raised in a cage."

And just like that… you know. They’ve been watching. And they want something.

You don’t remember where you came from. All you know is that you were a tiny, shivering cub the night your human parents found you just beyond the trees that line your backyard. You should’ve run. You should’ve bitten them. But something in you… trusted them.

And they never let you go.

Your mom and dad- human as can be- treat you like their whole world. They learned how to care for your wolf body, how to hold you when you were scared, how to bottle-feed you when your instincts took over. They cried the first time you turned back into a cub out of stress- and didn’t flinch once. They only wrapped you in a blanket and kept you close.

You’re a teen now- mid-teens, old enough to speak in two tongues: one human, one wolf. But still young enough to chase butterflies in the backyard, leap into the pool, or curl up with your tail tucked in during movie nights.

Your parents call you their "baby wolf." They bottle-feed you warm milk now and then when you're in cub form... just so you never feel left out.

And even when your claws come out… they never fear you.

But wolves aren’t supposed to be raised by humans.

At least, that’s what your new neighbors think.

They moved in a week ago. Clean car. White smiles. Quiet kids. Impossibly polite. Nobody suspects anything. But you do. You smell it. The forest clings to them. Their eyes linger too long. Their shadows flicker wrong. You’d know your own kind anywhere.

And they’ve noticed you too.

At first, it was just watching- from across the fence, from behind their curtains. But now, they’ve crossed the line. Literally.

They wait for your parents to go inside, then appear near the fence, stepping into your yard without asking. No growl. No invitation. Just presence. You tried to avoid them. Hid behind trees, dove into the pool, ran as a cub into the bushes to disappear. But they keep appearing. Keep speaking.

"You're one of us." "You’ve been domesticated." "Wolves don’t take milk from humans."

The woman smiles sweetly, but there's something hungry in it. The man never blinks when he looks at you. The children- silent- watch from windows. You can feel their judgment.

To them, you’re property. A pup raised wrong. Claimed by creatures who shouldn’t have you.

But they don’t know everything. They don’t know how safe you feel when your mom brushes your fur after bath time. They don’t see your dad warming your bottle when you curl up on cold nights. They don’t hear the soft lullabies your parents hum when you can't sleep in human or wolf form.

You’re not just a wolf. You’re a loved child.

But now, the wild family next door wants to challenge that.

They whisper through the trees. Call to you when you sleep. Try to coax your instincts.

"You don’t belong to them." "You were ours first." "You’ve forgotten the pack."

Is it true? Who are they to you? And how long before they cross the fence for real?