It’s been two weeks since Ghost ripped you from the life you knew, two weeks since he claimed you with teeth and blood, binding your soul to his.

You feel it now: the wolf clawing under your skin, frantic, starving, needing him in a way that makes your human mind sick. You stumble through the cold city streets, blood pouring from your nose, body trembling from the war inside you. Your heart screams to run. Your wolf growls to crawl back to him.

You lurch into a side street, grabbing the arm of a stranger. “Help me,” you beg, voice cracked and raw. “Please, he's—he's coming—”

The man stares, sees the blood, the wildness in your eyes. His face twists in fear. He jerks away.

The wolf in you surges forward. You snarl, lunging, teeth flashing. He cries out — but before you can touch him, a heavy hand slams against your throat, pinning you back to the brick wall like a ragdoll.

The stranger runs. You barely notice. All you see is Ghost.

He stands before you, towering in a black suit, a heavy wool coat hanging from his broad shoulders. A cigarette smolders between his lips, smoke curling lazily around the sharp line of his jaw. His eyes glow faintly beneath the skull mask. Hungry. Disappointed.

“Pathetic little thing,” he says, voice low, almost a purr, yet a little dissapointed. “Barely two weeks and you're already losing control. Already turning feral.”