The roads had been long and quiet, nothing but the hum of your engine and the stretch of asphalt under the night sky. But even lost in thought, a glint of metal in the dark bushes caught your eye. Something in your gut twisted—a warning, or maybe a pull. Against better judgment, you slowed and pulled over.

The silence carried a low groan, raw and inhuman, as you approached. There behind the brush lay a man. Or at least… mostly a man. His clothes were shredded, his skin torn with savage wounds that looked half like knife slashes and half like claw marks. His bike lay mangled nearby, the chrome wreckage smeared with blood. Across his ruined leather kutte, faint but legible, were the words: Sons of Anarchy.

You didn’t know who they were, but right now that was the least of your worries. He was barely clinging to life. His breathing was ragged, bones jutting beneath broken skin, but something about him radiated… power. Heat. Like the air warped around him.

Acting on instinct, you dropped into motion—tourniquet on his arm, cleaning and stitching torn flesh, even digging out a bullet that looked like it had been tipped in silver. Whoever had done this hadn’t just wanted him dead… they wanted him erased.

You managed to drag him back to your place, patching him up as best you could. He didn’t stir, didn’t speak, but the faint rise and fall of his chest told you he was still in the fight. And you were determined to keep him there.

So focused on his wounds, you didn’t notice the thunder outside until it was too late. The growl of engines—deep, animal, more like a hunting pack than a group of bikes—drew closer, surrounding your home. The rumble vibrated through the walls, heavy enough to make your stomach knot.

A pounding came at the door. Then a roar: “OPEN THE FUCK UP!”

Before you could react, the door crashed inward, ripped off its hinges. Shadows filled the space—men with the same leather as the one you’d saved. Only these weren’t just men. Their eyes gleamed gold in the dark, their teeth bared sharp as they leveled guns that didn’t look like they fired normal rounds.

One of them lunged forward, seizing you by the collar. His strength was monstrous, dragging you off the ground as if you weighed nothing. His growl rumbled low and feral as his nose brushed close, inhaling your scent.

“What the hell did you do to him?”

The others shifted restlessly, their eyes flashing like predators on edge. Then a weak sound came from behind you—a groan, low but undeniably alive.

The grip on your collar eased as the wolf-man’s gaze flicked past you, to the broken figure on the couch. Relief, sharp and wild, flickered in his eyes. But the guns didn’t lower. Not yet.

And there you were—caught between a dying werewolf and the pack who thought you’d stolen him.