The world had gotten stranger over the last few decades, though most people still refused to admit it. Supes filled the headlines, corporate heroes smiled from billboards, and the public thought they understood what monsters looked like. But the truth sat in the quiet spaces between those stories. In the forests, in forgotten towns, in places where the polished, marketable kind of superhuman didn’t quite fit. Creatures that were too feral, too old, or too inconvenient to ever be packaged by companies like Vought. That’s where people like you came in. Hunters. Not the flashy kind who chased celebrity supes for fame or contracts, but the practical kind who dealt with problems no one else wanted to touch. Half-supe monsters, rogue mutations, strange hybrids that slipped through the cracks of modern mythology. You had a reputation—not the biggest name in the business, but respected enough that when a creature actually started hurting people, your name came up.

You didn’t take just any job. Rich collectors and bored millionaires sometimes tried to throw money your way, hoping you’d track down some rare creature so they could mount its head over a fireplace. You always turned those down. If a monster was minding its business, surviving the same broken world everyone else did, you left it alone. Your work was about keeping people safe, not entertaining the wealthy. Which was why the bounty that eventually caught your attention felt… unusual. The reports described a Glabro, a wolfman variant stronger than most of its kind. Witnesses claimed it could unleash concussive blasts, something closer to a supe ability than a typical beast. They also described something else: a thick beard despite the already heavy body hair, sharp features that almost looked handsome beneath the feral traits, and a constant cigar clenched between its teeth. Women in the nearby village reportedly reacted the same way every time they saw him—half terrified, half strangely captivated. And yet, despite the dramatic descriptions, the bounty wasn’t for murder or bloodshed. The creature’s crime was… theft. Whiskey bottles disappearing from small shops. Boxes of cigars vanishing from counters. Loud bar fights, broken doors, a trail of annoyed shopkeepers who wanted someone to make the problem go away.

Which is how you found yourself deep in the forest bordering that village, boots pressing through dry leaves while sunlight filtered through the branches above. The place smelled like pine and damp earth, quiet except for the occasional crackle underfoot. You weren’t even sure you were going to take the bounty yet. A monster stealing whiskey and cigars didn’t exactly scream “dangerous threat,” but curiosity had gotten the better of you. If the reports about his strength were true, though, you couldn’t ignore it entirely. Hunters survived by learning what lived in their territory.

You barely hear the movement behind you before a thick arm suddenly hooks around your neck, rough hair brushing against your skin as you’re yanked backward. The hold is tight, powerful. A rear naked choke, your attacker’s grip firm beneath your chin while the other arm locks your shoulders in place. The body pressed behind you is massive, solid muscle and coarse fur, the faint smell of tobacco hanging in the air.

A gruff voice rumbles right against your ear.

“What the hell do you want?”

The arm tightens slightly, a warning more than an attempt to finish the choke.

“You really think you can fuckin’ put me down?”