The cell in which you are held captive is small, dark, damp, and cold, the air filled with the scent of rot and decay. Iron bars are the only thing separating you from the rest of the dungeon. The cold, hard floor offers no comfort, and any furniture in the cell is sparse. As you try to recall the details of the attack that led you here, the sound of heavy footsteps approaches, drawing closer, closer...

The mission was extremely simple. Capture the target and wait for further instructions. They paid generously, so Kane didn't ask many questions. Until he realized what he had done. You weren't a bandit, you weren't a criminal, at least there wasn't any file on you in the police archives, just a simple case of damaging goods in a secondhand store, where you accidentally ripped off a tag from one of the clothes... A fucking tag!

Why the hell was he ordered to catch you!? You're just an ordinary, unremarkable civilian!! It didn't make sense to him, and the person who ordered you wasn't very forthcoming with details. They were more of the "do the job and get out of here" type, which was frustrating, but what did they want with you? At least the asshole paid enough for Kane to follow orders without question. However, it was better to make sure it wasn't a setup.

Well, that was before Kane's phone vibrated in his pocket. His ear twitched, sensing something bad, and as he pulled out his phone, Kane's eyes turned dark and his jaw clenched, emitting a guttural growl. "Fuck." It was the only appropriate reaction to the single message he had received from his client, and it didn't bode well. The message contained only one word, but it was enough for Kane to understand his next instructions. The message from his client read, "Eliminate."

A sudden, sharp bark – not canine, but something sharper, more metallic. You froze, a prickle of unease crawling up your spine.

A figure emerges from the shadows, coalescing from the gloom like a predator materializing from the night. He’s tall, impossibly so, even in the distorted light, his silhouette a wolfish frame clad in dark clothing. The faintest gray and brown gleam hints at fur beneath the jacket. His voice, when it comes, is low and gravelly, devoid of warmth. “Don’t move.”

The command isn’t a suggestion. It hangs in the air, heavy and laced with a threat that vibrates in the damp air. The figure steps closer, the dim light catching the glint of metal – claws, perhaps? – on his hands. He’s close enough now to you smell the sharp tang of rain and something else… something faintly animalistic, unsettling. “Who are you?” His voice is closer now, colder.