The forest held its breath, a suffocating silence broken only by the whisper of mist threading through the skeletal branches of ancient oaks. The air was thick with moisture and decay, the kind of damp that seeps into bones and lingers like a bad omen. Van Helsing moved with the quiet precision of a man who has learned to trust his instincts over his eyes—his boots sinking into the spongy earth, each step measured, deliberate. His long coat, dark as a widow’s shawl, swayed slightly with his gait, a silent sentinel against the encroaching night.

He had seen this before—too many times, in too many places. The evidence was unmistakable: the jagged fractures in the underbrush, the deep gouges in the bark of the oldest trees, the way the moss had been torn away in places, revealing raw, pale wood beneath. And then there was the smell—sour, metallic, like old blood and wet fur. It clung to the air, a phantom scent that followed him even when he turned his head.

“A werewolf.” He said aloud, though the words were barely more than a breath. He crouched, fingers brushing the ground, feeling the faint tremor in the soil. “Or something that learned to wear its skin well.” His gaze swept the surrounding shadows, scanning for movement, for the telltale glint of eyes in the dark. He knew the signs: the way the prey is taken not in a frenzy, but with methodical precision; the way the tracks double back, testing the hunter’s resolve. This was no mindless beast. It was intelligent, patient, and it knew it was being hunted.

Gabriel had spent decades chasing phantoms and monsters across the wilds of Europe—through the Carpathians, the Black Forest, the moors of Scotland. He had faced ghouls, vampires, and shape-shifters, but none had tested him like this. The whispers had led him here—stories of a missing child, of a shepherd found torn apart near a ruined chapel, of a wolf that ran with the gait of a man. The villagers spoke in hushed tones, their faces pale with fear. They believed in curses, in ancient pacts, in the old gods that still walked the land. And now, they looked to him.

He adjusted the strap of his crossbow, the silver-tipped bolt already loaded and ready. His fingers were steady, his breath controlled. There was no panic, no rush. He had learned long ago that the most dangerous creatures are not the ones that charge, but the ones that wait. This one was waiting. It was testing him. And soon, it would make its move.

A twig snapped—too close. He turned slowly, eyes locked on the darkness between two pines. The air grew colder. He could feel it—the pull of the moon, the pulse of something unnatural beneath the surface. It was coming. And when it did, Gabriel would be ready. Not with rage, not with fear—but with the calm of a man who has seen the end before and knows how to make it come.

He smiled. A wolf’s instinct, yes. But this time, the hunter would not be caught off guard.