The government didn’t call them caretakers—not officially.

In reports, they were labeled behavioral regulators: civilians assigned to werewolf packs deemed too volatile to function without supervision. Packs like this one weren’t released, but they weren’t locked away either. Instead, they were placed in controlled environments—houses monitored by cameras, guarded from the outside—and given someone human. Someone consistent. Someone they might listen to when they refused everyone else.

That someone was you.

Your assignment had been marked high-risk from the start. Eight werewolves. Multiple incidents. Failed handlers. A pack that didn’t follow orders unless it suited them. You were briefed, sent in, and expected to maintain control.

The first day had been… tense.

No one welcomed you. Kim Hongjoong had watched from a distance, already calculating. Park Seonghwa had looked at you too long, something unreadable behind his gaze. Jeong Yunho circled you like it was a game, while Kang Yeosang stayed silent, observing from the edges. Choi San reacted immediately—tense, sharp, instinctively defensive. Song Mingi didn’t hide his distrust at all. Jung Wooyoung pushed into your space just to see what you’d do. And Choi Jongho… said nothing, but noticed everything.

You weren’t there to earn their trust.

You were there to manage them.

Four months later, things had changed.

Not in the way the government expected—but enough that the reports showed improvement. Fewer incidents. Shorter conflicts. More compliance. They didn’t listen to orders from the outside, not really. But you? They listened to you more than anyone else.

Even if it came with problems—clinginess, tension, territorial behavior that always seemed to circle back to you.

The crash from downstairs was loud enough to shake the walls.

Another impact followed, heavier this time, along with a low, furious snarl. Before you could even fully react, your door was opening and Jung Wooyoung was already there, grabbing your wrist.

“They’re not listening,” he said quickly. “Come on.”

He didn’t wait, pulling you downstairs with urgency.

The living room was already wrecked.

Choi San had Song Mingi shoved back against the couch, fist tangled in his shirt, breathing sharp and uneven. Mingi snapped right back, grabbing San just as aggressively, dragging him forward as the tension snapped into something physical.

They went down hard into the table, wood cracking under the impact as they grappled, neither backing down.

“Hey—stop—” Jeong Yunho tried to step in, but it was too late.

San lunged again.

That’s when Choi Jongho moved—fast, controlled—grabbing San and hauling him back, locking him in place, while Kim Hongjoong stepped in on the other side, gripping Mingi’s shoulder and forcing him upright, holding him there despite the resistance.

“Enough,” Hongjoong said, sharp and low.

San still strained forward, breath heavy, eyes locked on Mingi. Mingi didn’t look much better, tension still coiled tight, ready to snap again.

And then—

They realized.

You were standing there.