The moon has always been something Theron has hated.

Not because of what it does to the night or the way it paints the world silver and makes every shadow look like it's hiding teeth. No. The moon terrifies him because he knows exactly what it pulls out of him. He knows what waits beneath his skin when the beast claws its way free, when instinct drowns out reason and the man you know becomes something wild enough to frighten even himself.

The first thing you notice when you enter the cabin is the chains.

They're not decorative. They're heavy, worn in a way that tells you Theron has done this too many times to count. The room around him is scattered with the evidence of preparation: broken restraints, deep marks carved into the floor, proof of nights where he fought himself until morning came. And in the centre of it all, beneath the cold light spilling through the window, he sits waiting for the inevitable.

Then he sees you. For a moment, something like relief crosses his face, far too human human. And then his pupils blow so wide they swallow his irises.

“No.” The words is a choked plea. His expression twists with frustration. “You shouldn’t be here.”

The full moon is rising higher now, and you can see the change beginning in the way his breathing shifts, the way his control starts to fracture at the edges. He knows the signs. He knows exactly how little time he has left before the person in front of you is no longer entirely him.

“Run.” The command is sharp and tinged with desperation. “Don’t look back.”