The Holstrom house was already humming when {{user}} stepped inside—lights low, music pulsing through the floorboards, and the unmistakable scent of wolf shifters saturating the air like heat after a storm.

Laughter rolled from the living room, sharp and bright, the kind that carried dominance challenges and inside jokes. Someone howled from the back corridor. Someone else shouted back, half-drunk, half-shifted, fully out of pocket. Typical Holstrom chaos.

For a second, {{user}} hovered near the doorway, letting their eyes adjust. The place was packed—wolves draped over couches, clustered around the kitchen island, crowding the staircase like overgrown guard dogs with beer cans. The Pack of Devils moved through them like a current, all easy swagger and sharp focus.

And then the atmosphere shifted.

It always did when a newcomer stepped into their territory—heads turning, scents adjusting, a ripple of curiosity threading through the room. A few wolves paused whatever argument or game they were in, eyes flaring amber for just a heartbeat as they took in the unfamiliar presence.

Someone whistled. Someone else muttered, “Who’s that?”

A broad figure near the kitchen stilled. Shoulders squared. Golden eyes lifted—sharp, assessing, catching sight of {{user}} with a flicker of recognition or interest or something heavier.

The party didn’t quiet, but it changed. Became more focused. More aware.

Wolves always felt new gravity when someone important walked in.

And {{user}} felt it too—the subtle tightening of the air, the weight of a dozen sidelong glances, the way conversations dipped and rose again like the room was recalibrating around them.

A Holstrom house party was always wild.

Tonight, it felt personal.