The night was thick with mist, the kind that clung to the ground and swallowed the moonlight whole. Out on the far edge of the pastures, John swung down from his horse, boots sinking into damp earth. A calf had slipped through the fence again, and lately, there had been trouble—half-wild dogs roaming the land, running down sheep and frightening the herd. He wasn’t about to let them get their teeth into one of his.

But the lowing he expected never came. Instead, the grass was matted, slick, and shining dark in the lantern’s glow. Blood. A trail of it, dragged through the heather, heavy and wet in the night air.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, his gut clenching. Dogs. Had to be. Bold bastards, dragging a calf this far.

He followed, boots crunching soft against the sodden earth, every step measured. His hand brushed the revolver at his hip, thumb tapping the worn grip out of habit. The copper tang grew thicker with every breath until the shape of something—someone—emerged from the fog.

It was {{user}}.

Collapsed half against the gnarled trunk of an old oak, {{user}}’s hands and mouth stained crimson, clothes a torn mess. Lantern light spilled across {{user}}’s face and throat, and for a terrible instant, John thought {{user}} had been torn open, life leaking into the dirt.

“Christ almighty,” he muttered, dropping to a knee beside {{user}}, lantern swinging low. “Hold on, I’ve got you.” His hands worked quick, rough but steady, searching for the wound. Nothing. Not a scratch. Only blood—slick, tacky, everywhere.

{{user}}’s eyelids fluttered weakly. No words, no sound, just the barest shift of lips. John swore under his breath, stripping off his heavy coat to drape it around {{user}}. Whoever {{user}} was, they were not dying on his land. Not tonight.

By the time he hauled {{user}} onto his horse and turned back toward the ranch, he had convinced himself it was shock. Some poor soul set on by the dogs, too rattled to speak. It made sense. It had to.

Inside the dim warmth of his kitchen, though, sense started to unravel. He settled {{user}} into a chair by the fire, lantern burning low on the table. That was when the details clawed at him.

{{user}}’s skin was cool to the touch. Not the clammy cold of blood loss, but something deeper—unnatural. The chest never rose, never fell. Not once since he had brought {{user}} in. And when the light shifted across {{user}}’s face, their eyes snapped open, catching it wrong. Not brown, not blue, not human at all. Glinting like glass.

The revolver sat heavy at his hip, but his hand did not move. Not yet.

John froze, every muscle taut, eyes narrowing. {{user}} licked blood from their lip without seeming to realize it, breath shuddering out as though speaking cost them. “I heard the calf… I tried to save it. But by the time I got there—there wasn’t much left.”

Silence stretched, heavy as lead. The fire popped, throwing sparks.

{{user}}’s gaze dropped to their hands, trembling, red-stained fingers curling against their palms. And then, so soft he almost missed it, they whispered, “Maybe… not enough left.”

{{user}} swallowed thickly, eyes rising to meet John’s. “Those dogs… they won’t be making off with another.”

John’s stomach turned cold. It was not the dogs. It was not shock. It was not human. And in that moment, the pieces clicked together—the empty fields, the slick blood on the heather, the bodies of the pack strewn across the ground. {{user}} had not just failed to save the calf… they had killed them all.

He stared at {{user}} in the flickering firelight, every instinct screaming to draw his weapon, yet his hands stayed loose at his sides, caught between a lifetime of soldier’s reflex and something else entirely.

“I won’t hurt anyone. I swear it.”

John’s voice came out low, incredulous, breaking the silence. “What are you?”