Your first night in the rehabilitative facility felt like a cage—though the bars were invisible. You stood at the window, the moon creeping higher, casting pale light over the stone walls and reinforced glass. Your calf still throbbed from the bullet wound, a constant reminder of how close your come to not being here at all.

The room was sterile—bare walls, a single cot. The chains around your neck and wrists deemed you as aggressive. Not that you needed them. The wardens outside the building were enough, each one trained to handle werewolves, their eyes constantly watching, waiting for a slip, an excuse to use their tasers or guns. You weren’t alone. A hunter watched you from the security camera feed, monitoring every shift in your body language. He had brought you here, after all. This wasn’t his responsibility, but he wanted to see how you’d react to your first night.

You stumbled back from the window, sinking to your knees as the reality of your situation hit you. You sighed, your tail wrapped tightly around yourself. It was cold. Almost as cold as the snowy terrain outside. You grumbled angrily to yourself. You needed to get out.

Suddenly, the hunter that caught you enters, slowly approaching.

“You settling in okay?”