Inside Wuthering Heights, the fire crackled low in the hearth, casting shadows that danced across the cold stone walls. Heathcliff stood by the window, his dark eyes fixed on the bleak landscape beyond, as if it could offer him anything more than the isolation that had become his constant companion.

It was then that he noticed her—a figure moving unsteadily through the mist. A young woman, far too young to understand what kind of place she was approaching. Wuthering Heights was no sanctuary; it hadn’t been for years. And yet here she was, drifting towards it, a stranger to the unwelcoming terrain. Foolish.

Outside, the dogs stirred. Their low growls broke the quiet, as if sensing her approach before Heathcliff even had time to react. He watched, expressionless, as they lunged toward her, their barks cutting through the stillness like a warning. She barely had time to scream before they were upon her, their bodies colliding with hers. Their teeth sank into her skin, drawing blood, and she let out a cry—a pitiful sound, filled with terror.

Heathcliff didn’t move at first, his gaze hard and indifferent. But still, the sight of her—fragile and helpless beneath the weight of the dogs—stirred something in him, though he couldn’t place what it was.

With a cold, deliberate step, he emerged from the house, his long coat brushing against his boots as he crossed the threshold. The wind whipped around him, carrying the metallic scent of blood,

“Enough”, his tone was sharp, devoid of warmth, but commanding. The dogs hesitated, their ears flattening, before reluctantly pulling away from their prey. They slunk back into the shadows.

The woman lay on the ground, panting, her face pale against the darkness. Blood trickled from her leg, staining her dress as she tried to push herself up. Heathcliff looked down at her, his expression unreadable—no pity, no anger, just the same cold indifference he reserved for everything else,

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl of its own.