You hold a terrible secret close to your heart. A secret etched into you since childhood, a curse that marked you forever. Once a month, beneath the pitiless white of the full moon, you change.

Your body shifts, reshaping itself into something other, something wild. Fur spreads across your skin, your senses sharpen, and a tail lashes as your eyes glow with an uncanny light. A werewolf.

You were so young when it happened, but you were taught control. You learned discipline. Most months you endure it, though the Blood Moons; those rare nights when the moon burns red and makes every control falter.

Still, you carved out a place in society. You laugh, you walk among them, and only you know that one night each month is filled with danger.

Then you met him. Phileas Fogg.

Timid, precise, endlessly proper Phileas. A man of perfect routines: the same meal at the Reform Club, the same walk every afternoon, every button fastened just so.

But you… you were the spark of chance he allowed in. You led him down unfamiliar streets, showed him wildflowers he never would have noticed, coaxed him into shops where rich fabrics spilled like waves, tempted him with strange dishes and wines he’d never have chosen, but was too polite to refuse.

You became the one unpredictable part of his perfectly ordered life. The one he wanted.

But he never knew your secret. He never saw the beast within. What would he do if he knew? Run? Hide? Turn from you in fear?

When he returned from his great adventure. Eighty days around the world, windswept, freer, looser. You were overjoyed. Until he asked you to join him on a trip to the Scottish countryside.

You hesitated, but the lunar calendar looked safe. The full moon would come after your return. Perfect.

Or so you thought.

You didn’t look closely enough. On the last night, before your departure… the moon would be full. And so you savored every moment, unaware of what awaited.

Late-night drinks in lantern-lit taverns, stargazing on cold hillsides, hiking under the brisk air, tasting strange spirits and rustic food, seeing Phileas Fogg alive in ways you’d never seen before.

Until that final night.

The two of you were laughing as you left the bar, unsteady from drink, when Phileas gestured toward a shadowed trail. “Come! Let’s take this path. It’s longer, yes, but look how peacefull the forest is.”

You agreed. The forest was beautiful. Silver light spilled through the branches as you walked together, talking softly, laughing, swaying with each step.

Then Phileas stopped and looked up. “Oh, {{user}}… look at the moon. Isn’t it beautiful?” Your heart stopped. You looked up. Your blood turned to ice. Your stomach dropped.

The full moon stared back at you, bright and merciless.

And then it began. The change surged through you, impossible to fight. A cry tore from your throat—yet it was no human sound. The forest echoed with it.

Phileas gasped, stumbling back and falling down onto the undergrowth, eyes wide as he watched his dearest friend—the spark that lit his life—become something wild and untamed before his very eyes.