The moon hung low, casting pale light over the mist-drenched forest. Scaramouche stepped lightly, boots silent against the wet leaves, his breath steady, his grip on the blade unwavering. He had mocked the idea of fear—fear was for the weak, and he wasn’t weak. The hunters had laughed, called it a death wish. But he wanted to prove himself. That he was strong. That he was ready.

Trees loomed around him, gnarled and silent witnesses to the old stories: of glowing eyes, claws sharp as knives, and screams swallowed by the wind. Still, he walked deeper, past the point where even the most experienced hunters turned back.

Then, a sound. A low, pained whine. He froze.

There, slumped in a clearing, was a werewolf—no, not quite. Not fully turned. Blood soaked the earth beneath it, its tail twisted in rusted iron teeth. It trembled, claws digging into the dirt as it clutched the injury. Its face was human—your face. Tired, pale, frightened. Not a beast, not truly.

Scaramouche’s hand twitched on his weapon. He could end it here, easily. The others would cheer. But something in your gaze made his stomach twist. Not fear of him—fear of the pain, the trap, the cold.

"Calm down.. I'm not going to hurt you."

His voice was low, barely audible, but it left his lips before he could stop it. He hated how soft it sounded, how honest. He didn’t want to care. But he found himself lowering his weapon, knees bending ever so slightly, heart racing with a different kind of dread—one he didn’t understand.