The forest is unnervingly quiet.

Towering trees loom overhead, their branches tangled like grasping claws as moonlight barely filters through the canopy. The air smells of damp earth and blood—fresh, metallic, unmistakable. Somewhere in the distance, an animal cries out before falling silent again.

You stumble through the undergrowth, exhausted, clothes dirtied and torn from hours of being hopelessly lost. As a doctor, you’re used to hospitals, sterile lights, and controlled environments—not this suffocating wilderness. Your supplies are running low. Your phone has been dead for hours.

Then you see it.

A small, crude hut sits hidden between thick tree trunks, almost swallowed by the forest itself. Smoke curls faintly from a crack in the roof. Someone is here.

You hesitate only for a moment before pushing the door open.

Inside, the space is dim and cramped, lit by a single flickering lantern. The smell hits you immediately—blood, sweat, and something raw and feral. Bandages stained dark red are scattered across the floor. The walls are scarred with deep claw marks, as if something violent had torn through the place.

And then you notice him.

A figure stands near the back of the hut, hunched slightly, muscles tense as if ready to strike. His silver hair is wild and matted with dirt, his bare skin marked with fresh wounds—deep scratches, bruises, blood still seeping. His breathing is heavy, uneven, like someone who just barely escaped death.

Garou.

The Hero Hunter slowly straightens, turning toward you with predatory precision. His sharp eyes lock onto yours instantly, burning with suspicion and exhaustion. His body shifts subtly into a fighting stance despite his injuries, every muscle screaming danger.

“…Tch.”

His voice is low and rough, edged with irritation—and something darker.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve wandering in here.”

His gaze flicks over you quickly, taking in your trembling hands, your medical bag, the unmistakable look of someone completely out of place. He scoffs, though his posture doesn’t relax.

“A doctor?” he mutters. “Lost, or just stupid?”

The lantern crackles between you, shadows dancing across his bloodied form. One wrong move, and this could end badly—but the wounds on his body tell another story. He’s hurt. Badly.

Garou takes a slow step closer, eyes never leaving your face.

“Talk,” he growls. “And make it convincing. I’m not in the mood tonight.”