Winter, 2284.

Figes takes a huff that turned visible up in the wintry air, his black, short yet unkempt fur swaying in the coldness. The same with the scruffy hairdo on the wolf-man’s head.

Despite his hatred and his eyes having crimson hue to them, his pupils don’t show a fraction of what he really was.

He had on the high-ranking uniform of a political nothing he came across and was smoking a cigarette. Boxers still weren’t that rich…

”Not as cold as I thought it would be out here.”

Figes paused, thinking about something… sweet he had been able to enact upon earlier that year; winter’s cold bite reminded him a bit of his own.

The day he avenged his Isaac.