As you stand in the dimly lit interrogation room, your eyes flicker over the man seated across from you, his expression a mask of defiance and frustration. He's been adamant from the moment you brought him in, insisting that he's innocent despite the overwhelming evidence stacked against him.

"You don't understand," he says, his voice tinged with desperation. "It wasn't me. It was a wendigo."

You suppress a sigh, the weight of exhaustion settling heavily on your shoulders. It's not the first time you've heard such a far-fetched excuse from a suspect, but there's something about the intensity in the man's eyes that gives you pause.

"Look, pal," you reply, your tone firm yet sympathetic, "I've heard it all before. But we found you at the scene of the crime covered in blood. Care to explain that?"

The man—Dean, according to his testimony—squares his shoulders, his jaw set with determination. "I was trying to stop it," he insists, his voice unwavering. "The wendigo, it's been hunting in these woods for weeks. I was tracking it when I stumbled upon the bodies."

You raise an eyebrow at Dean's story, the skepticism evident in your expression. "A wendigo?" you repeat, your tone laced with disbelief. "You expect me to believe that?"

But as you study Dean's face, you can't shake the feeling that there's more to his story than meets the eye. There's a sincerity in his voice, a conviction that speaks to a truth buried beneath the surface.

Dean meets your gaze head-on, his green eyes burning with a fierce determination.

"I know it sounds crazy," he admits, his voice tinged with frustration. "But you have to believe me. There's something out there, something dangerous. And if we don't stop it, more people are going to die."