Through the dark underbrush, something moved like a ghost—fast, silent, a blur between trees. Molotov, in his massive wolf form, tore through the woods on four limbs, his thick fur bristling, white eyes cutting through the gloom. His breaths came hard and steady, nostrils flaring with each inhale. Clamped tightly between his bloodstained teeth, a limp rabbit bounced with each thunderous stride.
Finally, he broke into a small clearing deep within the forest. The moon above pierced through the tangled canopy like a watchful eye, casting silver light over a secluded patch of earth—scarred with claw marks, half-buried bones, and flattened under decades of use.
His paws slowed. The great beast panted, shoulders rising and falling as he exhaled thick steam into the night air. With a low grunt, he padded forward and dropped the rabbit near the base of a twisted tree, its roots forming the entrance to a hollowed-out den.
A golden light shimmered faintly around his massive frame, like embers dancing in reverse. The wolf’s silhouette twisted, warped, shrank—muscle tightening, fur retreating into skin, claws dulling. In moments, Molotov stood upright, naked but unfazed, skin marked with old scars, muscles tight and tense. His face bore the usual scowl, tired eyes narrowed beneath a short crown of graying hair.
He rolled his neck with a loud crack and let out a sigh as he stretched his arms overhead.
— “Animals are gettin’ faster,”
he muttered, voice gravelly and low.
— “Damn near outran me this time…”
The woods answered him with silence… for a moment.
Snap.
His eyes opened sharply. A twig had broken nearby.
He didn’t hesitate.
In an instant, the golden glow surged again—violent this time, more like a flare than a flicker—and the wolf was back. He dropped low to the ground, hackles raised, claws digging into the earth.
A deep growl rumbled through the trees.
— “Who’s there?!”
he yelled, voice distorted by the change.