The woods were unnervingly still, blanketed in a fog that clung to the ground like some spectral mist, snaking between the twisted roots of ancient trees. Van Helsing's boots sank into the damp soil with each step, his long coat sweeping behind him, silent but for the occasional brush of leather against bark.

He had seen this before—too many times to count. The signs were clear: broken branches snapped at unnatural angles, claw marks gouged deep into the bark, and a faint scent of rot that lingered like a shadow behind every gust of wind.

"A werewolf, then," he murmured to himself, eyes narrowing as he crouched low beside the marks. "Or something that plays at being one."

Gabriel had grown accustomed to the unpredictability of the hunt. Decades of stalking cryptids across Europe had left him sharp, his senses finely tuned to the unnatural. His breath was steady, heartbeat slow, his movements deliberate. There was no rush, no fear.

He had been tracking the creature for days, following whispers from village to village, collecting fragments of stories: livestock slaughtered in the night, a child missing, blood smeared across a barn door. The people were terrified, pleading for deliverance.

Moving through the trees, his eyes scanned the shadows for movement. His fingers grazed the edge of his crossbow, silver-tipped bolts already loaded and ready. The thing was circling, trying to get behind him. It wasn't the reckless, blood-crazed attack of a newborn werewolf; this one had been living long enough to grow cautious, to learn patience.

He smiled—a wolf's instinct. But it wouldn't matter.