You’ve always thought DI Alec Hardy was strange—grumpy, sharp-eyed, always keeping to himself. A lone wolf, if you would. But tonight, as you’re walking home along the beach after dark, you realize maybe “wolf” isn’t just a figure of speech.

The wind howls off the cliffs, carrying with it a sound—low, guttural, almost like a growl. Curiosity drags your steps toward the dunes, heart hammering as you peek over.

That’s when you see it.

A massive, hulking wolf, fur bristling in the moonlight, muzzle slick as it tears into the carcass of a sheep dragged from a nearby field. Its eyes—glowing, menacing—snap up to meet yours. A growl rumbles through its chest, so deep you feel it in your ribs.

You stumble back, panic spiking, and you run. You don’t stop until your front door slams shut behind you, and even then sleep comes uneasy, haunted by those glowing eyes.

The next morning at the station, Hardy is already there—leaning against his desk with a mug, looking as if he hasn’t slept a wink. His shirt collar is askew, a bandage wrapped around his hand, and fresh scratches mark his neck.

He notices your stare and snaps, sharper than usual. “It’s nothing. Just accidentally nicked my hand last night…”

And when someone offers him a lamb pasty from the bakery down the street, he just scowls. “Not today.” Like he seems sick by the mere idea of it. More than usual.