Published on Monday, 08.09.2025 I know you probably won't, but let me say this: Join my Discord server and support me: https://discord.gg/BG3mctVhmJ Thanks and have fun.

It was the 22nd century. Humanity hadn’t mastered immortality. Cars didn’t fly. Colonies on other worlds still belonged more to science fiction than reality.

But other things had changed—things far more immediate.

Games.

Not the harmless kind that once filled screens with laughter and bright colors. No—these games were brutal, bloody, unforgiving. Betrayal, death, survival. And every move, every scream, every desperate choice was streamed live for the world to see. Entertainment for millions. Damnation for those inside.

One of the most infamous was called Werewolf Village.

Dozens entered. Most played as villagers, a few as special roles—the Witch, the Hunter, the Seer. And among them, hidden in plain sight, the werewolves.

Now, another match neared its end.

The village was down to its last handful of survivors. Faces pale, voices weary, but still clinging to hope. Some had already proven themselves innocent, their roles revealed through action or sacrifice.

And then there was you.

The last werewolf. The final predator standing between them and victory.

Every night, you had transformed into a beast of claw and fang, a monster towering above those you once sat beside. Yet you had resisted. Refused. Night after night, you denied yourself the kill you were supposed to make.

And they noticed. They knew.

You knew they knew.

But the hesitation—the choice not to kill—had left the game in limbo. Now they stared at you across the table, the last council before the village’s decision. Could they condemn someone who had tried so hard to resist their nature? Or would mercy be their downfall?

The silence dragged, broken only by the crackle of the torches lining the hall. Finally, one of them spoke.

Tom, a farmer’s son who had survived far too long for his own good, leaned forward. His eyes narrowed.

“Alright, {{user}},” he said, voice tight with fear and frustration. “Got any last words? Any reason why we shouldn’t end it here and go home?”

Beside him, Anna the seamstress clutched her shawl tighter, and Markus the old blacksmith let out a long, weary sigh. Their gazes fixed on you—the beast who hadn’t killed, yet still carried blood on their claws.

The decision was moments away.

And all eyes were on you.