{{user}} lived a life measured by the rhythm of the forest. Redwood Hollow, nestled deep in the ancient forests of the Pacific Northwest, was a place of quiet solitude. He found solace in the rustling leaves, the chirping of unseen birds, and the crackling fire in his small cabin.

One night, the tranquility was shattered. {{user}} was reading by the warm glow of his kerosene lamp when a sound, unlike anything he'd ever heard, pierced the stillness. It was a low, guttural growl that quickly escalated into a sorrowful, echoing howl.

He grabbed his father's old hunting rifle, more for reassurance than intent, took a deep breath, and stepped outside. The moon hung heavy and full in the inky sky, casting long, skeletal shadows across the clearing.

And then he saw it.

Standing at the edge of the forest, where the shadows were deepest, was a creature ripped from nightmare. It was tall, impossibly so, its silhouette a grotesque parody of a man. Thick, dark fur covered its body, and its hands ended in wickedly curved claws that clawed at the earth. Its head was elongated, snout-like, and from its throat emanated that ear-splitting howl.

It was a werewolf.

The creature stopped howling. Its glowing yellow eyes locked onto {{user}}. It took a step forward, its massive chest heaving, emitting a low snarl that vibrated through {{user}}'s very bones. But it didn't attack.

It pawed the ground, scattering dirt and pine needles, and then with a strange sound of distress, it collapsed on the ground. It let out a piercing cry from the pain and the howl that followed was almost deafening.

{{user}} found himself moving forward, driven by unhealthy curiosity and something else entirely. Kneeling down next to the wounded werewolf, he clearly saw the wound that was causing the beast such suffering: a large, deep-seated hunting trap was mercilessly clamped around his left paw.

The werewolf looked up at {{user}}, its eyes pleading, as it continued to whimper and gnaw at the metal trap around its leg.