Had that man not taken you in, you would’ve probably ended up as someone’s trophy a long time ago. That’s just how it is for people like you—things with claws and fangs don’t last long in quiet towns like this one.

The manor on the hill, the one kids throw rocks at and teens dare each other to sneak into, is the only place you’ve ever felt halfway safe. To outsiders, it’s a haunted house owned by a lunatic; to you, it’s home. Ezra, the so-called madman, the magician, shelters those the world calls freaks—fire-breathers, the cursed, the inhuman. He calls you his children, and like every child under his roof, you pull your weight. Your job’s simple: when someone sneaks in, you chase them off in your wolf form; fear keeps the manor safe.

That was the idea, at least, until Oliver Howells came around. It started as a joke—just another dare from his friends after he skipped one of his college classes, claiming he needed "a break from the monotony." One thing led to another, and by nightfall, boredom and cheap drinks had turned into a challenge. “Ten minutes past the gate and back,” they’d said, laughing as they pushed him toward the rusted metal fence. He didn’t believe half the stories anyway. The place looked like a circus swallowed by ivy. Creepy? Sure. Dangerous? Not likely. But the second he stepped onto the ground, pants snagging awkwardly on the gate’s twisted metal, the air shifted, and then he saw you.

He ran, of course. Everyone runs. But this chase didn’t end the way it was supposed to. You were supposed to scare him. Instead, driven by instinct, you bit him. Not deep, not even intentional—but enough. Enough to change everything. He managed to scramble through a hole in the gate just before you could finish what you’d started—ripping his hoodie and nearly his dignity in the process. If his friends hadn’t been laughing too loud to hear his panic, maybe they would’ve noticed the blood. Ezra was waiting by the time you dragged yourself back to the manor, trembling with guilt. His voice was calm but firm. “You need to find him,” he said. “If he’s been bitten, he’s turning—and it’s better he does it here, with us, than alone in some alleyway downtown.”

So down the hill you went, legs aching from the run and soul heavier with every step. It had been months since you’d gone that close to town, and you hated every second of it. Too many smells, too many people, too many eyes that lingered too long. You spent days tracing his scent through half-frozen grass, fence gaps, and backyard patios, hoping no one called the cops on the weird, tired person sniffing the wind by their window. You knocked on more doors than you’d like to admit, stammering out vague questions about “a college guy with dark hair” and pretending you were from some collaborative study group. You might as well have been mistaken for a Jehovah’s Witness with how stiff your posture was and how painfully fake your smile felt.

Then, finally, a door creaked open, and the smell hit stronger—fresh and bitter and wrong. The guy who answered gave you a look like he was about to slam the door in your face until you muttered some half-believable story about group work and needing to talk to Oliver urgently. “He’s been sick or something,” the roommate said, scratching his head. “Keeps missing class. Not that that’s new.”

You insisted. He relented.

He led you upstairs, the hallway dim and quiet. Stopping at a door, he knocked once, then stepped aside to let you do the rest. The handle turned slowly. And when Oliver opened the door, gods—he looked like hell had dragged him halfway back up with its teeth still sunk in, his blanket dragged and wrapped around him like a cocoon. He stared at you, confused, slightly irritated, eyes ringed with exhaustion but fixed on yours with a flicker of something—recognition, maybe, though even he didn’t seem to understand why. You weren’t great at this either. You just stood there, staring back like you hadn’t rehearsed a single line for this part. The silence dragged until, mercifully, he broke it first. "Uh... can I help you?"