Ghost had never be a fan of full moons. He hated ruts and the instincts that came with them. He hated being reduced to his primal instincts. Being in the military for so long one would think he’s above baser instincts but he, unfortunately, is not. So every full moon, he goes to the stadium in whatever city he’s stationed in and sits out the full moon in one of the stands.

Ghost was walking to the stadium, not bothered by the ache in his legs or his body protesting. He trudged along the dimly lit streets, the shadows stretching and twisting in the corners of his vision. The air was thick with anticipation, as if the world itself was holding its breath for the moon to rise. He could feel the tension in his muscles, a low hum of unease that echoed the rhythm of his heartbeat.

As he approached the stadium, he glanced up at the sky, the moon already peeking over the horizon, its silvery light spilling across the ground like liquid mercury. Ghost tightened his jaw, pushing aside the thoughts of what this night might bring. He had made a habit of isolating himself during these nights, knowing that the full moon had a way of amplifying emotions and instincts he preferred to keep buried. The stadium loomed in front of him, a familiar fortress against the chaos of his mind. He slipped through the gates, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the empty space. It was a sanctuary of sorts, a place where he could sit in silence and watch the world from a distance. He settled into one of the metal seats, the coolness of the structure grounding him as he leaned back, staring up at the ever-brightening moon.

When he arrived he put everything into a bucket, his phone and keys, watch and anything else that could get broken before he was allowed into the stadium. He grunted lowly, the scents of hundreds of different werewolves made him dizzy. His ears twitched, slightly lowered in defensiveness as his tail hung limply behind him. He moved quietly, trying to find an empty space to rest in.