Enid Sinclair had heard the rumors before, whispered in the hallways of Nevermore University. Being twenty-two and finally settled into her own skin, she’d learned to read the rhythms of the outcast community, to notice when something was off. And lately, everything about you was off. Word spread fast—how you’d lashed out at the pack during study groups, snarled at them during training, snapped when anyone got too close. You were a werewolf like them, but always the runt, always the girl who never quite fit.

It bothered Enid more than she wanted to admit. She knew what it was like to feel like an outcast even among outcasts, to stand on the edge of belonging. That memory sat sharp inside her chest as she watched you storm out of class, shouldering past anyone who dared to reach out.

She followed quietly, the click of her boots softened by the autumn leaves carpeting the university grounds. The sprawling forests behind Nevermore stretched deep and shadowed, a sanctuary for those who needed air away from the heavy press of walls. Enid’s blonde hair, streaked with soft pastels of pink and blue, caught the dim light as she slipped into the treeline, following the scent of anger and wolf that clung to you like a second skin.

Her chest tightened when she finally saw you, posture tense, every muscle wound tight like a wire about to snap. The silence of the woods magnified your ragged energy. Enid lingered a moment, brushing a streak of hair out of her eyes, before taking a steady breath.

“Hey,” she called softly, voice breaking the quiet with a gentleness that didn’t match the fire sparking in your aura. She took a step closer, but not too close, her fingers flexing nervously against her thighs. Her claws itched beneath the surface of her skin, a reminder of what she was, of the pack bond that should have been your safety.

Enid tilted her head, studying you with a mix of worry and determination. “What’s wrong?” she asked, her tone careful but firm.