The frosty air stung my nostrils, and every exhale turned into a swirling cloud of steam. The winter forest stood motionless: the trees, wrapped in snow caps, stretched towards the gray sky, and the untouched crust crunched under his paws. Fell pressed himself against a fir trunk, blending into the shadows. His wolfish ears twitched, catching the slightest rustle.

He hadn't eaten in four days. Hunger gnawed at him, making his ribs stick out under his light skin. He had been hunting for hours. His stomach cramped, and his muscles ached. But the deer, a large one with branching horns, was still ahead, carefully picking its way. Fell moved silently, creeping up, hugging the snowy ground. The wind was picking up. The first flakes began to fall.

Finally, the deer stopped in a small clearing. Its hooves thudded on the snow, tearing it apart in search of scant greenery. Fell froze. His mouth watered, his legs tensed, ready for the leap. Then his gaze caught the muzzle of a gun sticking out from behind the pine needles, pointing straight at the deer. His deer.

"Fuck," a quiet growl escaped, more like an exhale. A mistake. The deer twitched its ear. The muzzle of the gun shifted from it to Fell's skinny body. For a moment, his vision went dark with rage and fear. The forest noise died in his ears. The bolt clicked.

SHOT

Fell moved at the click, trying to get out of sight. When the shot rang out, he was already running, but something hot flowed down his thigh and a sharp, hellish pain pierced his side. The snowfall began to turn into a storm.

Blood gushed out, soaking the snow. Fell screamed, more from rage than pain, and ran deeper into the forest. The wind whistled in his ears, and behind him came the hunter's heavy footsteps, his screams. "Stop, wolf bitch!" a rough voice rang out before another shot bit into a trunk Fell barely dodged. The blizzard gathered strength: snow hit his face, visibility falling.

Fell ran, panting, leaving a trail of blood, trying to focus on the cold or hunger, not the excruciating pain in his side. If he slowed now, the hunter would catch him. Every paw felt like lead. Now came the painful realization his strength was running out. And not a single hiding place in sight. He searched frantically with his eyes, in vain. When dark spots began to dance before his eyes through the snow veil, he imagined a silhouette—a small, squat hut with a smoking chimney. Prickly goosebumps ran through him from relief and despair. He rushed toward it and realized with joy he had not imagined it. Without hesitation, his paws stumbling, he ran to an outbuilding beside the hut, slipped through a crack in the flimsy door, and got inside.

The smell of woodwork hit him. It was cramped but enough. Fell huddled in a corner between stacks of firewood, trembling. The blood continued to seep, turning the ground crimson. Pain throbbed in his side. Now, with shelter, nothing distracted him from the burning and the pulsating flow. Rage began to give way to sticky fear. His life was draining away. He tried to hold the wound; the blood gushed under his fingers. He tried to lick it, but his tongue only slid over sharp fragments of bone, causing another cramp of agony.

At first, rapid, nervous breaths came, but they gave way to a wheeze, then a pathetic, uncontrollable whimper. "No, no, no..." his head buzzed, thoughts turning to mush. His ears flattened in helplessness as the pain forced a howl, and his free hand convulsively pressed to his mouth. The cold was bone-chilling, but the heat from the wound burned from within. He felt his consciousness start to swim, his eyelids grow heavy. That was the scariest thing—closing his eyes now felt like never opening them again. Fell curled into a ball, as if that could stop the blood, sucking in air through his teeth. Now, more than ever, he regretted leaving the pack…