The forest smelled of wet pine and decay, the kind that seeped into your jacket and stayed there like a bad decision. Your flashlight beam jittered across roots and fallen needles as you picked your way deeper, boots sinking into the soft black earth. The abandoned estate was supposed to be three miles in—Victorian bones rotting under ivy, windows like empty sockets. You’d come for the quiet adrenaline of trespassing on forgotten things. Not this.

The first howl came low. Then another, threading through the trees like a warning. Your heart slammed against your ribs. Wolves didn’t sound like that—did they? Not in these woods. You told yourself it was coyotes, maybe a dog pack gone feral, but your pulse didn’t believe the lie. You quickened your pace anyway, beam swinging wild, until the light caught something dark and wet on the ground.

Blood. Thick and fresh, dragging left like something heavy had been pulled. Your stomach flipped. Common sense screamed turn around, but curiosity nudged you forward. The trail curved around a massive oak, and there he was.

He—he?—was enormous, easily nine feet if he’d stood straight, crouched now in a tangle of rusted chains and what looked like an old bear trap clamped around one massive hind leg. White fur, not the dirty gray of wolves you’d seen in documentaries, but stark, almost luminous under the moon, streaked crimson where the metal had bitten deep. Broad shoulders heaved with each ragged breath; claws longer than your fingers dug furrows into the dirt. His head lifted slowly, and impossible blue eyes locked on yours.

You froze. The flashlight trembled in your grip, beam shaking across his muzzle, the flash of teeth, the slow blink of those eyes that shouldn’t have looked so… tired.

He didn’t lunge. Didn’t growl. Just watched you, chest rising and falling, a low whine caught in his throat like he was trying not to make it.

Your mouth went dry. “Holy shit,” you whispered, more to yourself than him. “You’re… real.”

Idiot. Of course he was real. The blood was real. The pain radiating off him in waves was real. You should have run. Every horror movie you’d ever binged screamed it. Instead, your feet moved closer; the trap was old, pitted with rust, jaws sunk into muscle. Blood pooled beneath his paw, dark and syrupy. You crouched a few feet away, knees in the damp leaves.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” you said softly, like he’d understand. Like talking to a nine-foot werewolf was normal Friday-night conversation. “I just… I can try to get that off, okay? If you don’t eat me first.”

A huff escaped him. His ears flicked. He didn’t move closer, but he didn’t snap either. Just those steady eyes, tracking every shift of your body.

You set the flashlight down, beam angled so it lit the trap without blinding him. Your hands shook as you reached for the chain. You found the release mechanism (rusted shut, of course) and swore under your breath. “Come on, you piece of shit.”

Minutes blurred. Sweat stung your eyes despite the chill. You wedged a flat stone under one jaw, pried with both hands until your shoulders burned. He stayed unnaturally still, breath hot against your forearm when you leaned in too close.

When the trap finally sprang open with a metallic snap, he didn’t bolt. Didn’t attack. Just lowered his head, sides heaving, and nudged the top of his muzzle against your knee. The contact was so gentle it stole your air. A thank-you that didn’t need words.

You sat back on your heels, staring. “You’re not gonna let me leave now, are you?”

Another huff. Almost amused. You exhaled. “Great. I save a werewolf and now I’ve got a shadow. My therapist is gonna love this.”

You stood, legs wobbly, and picked up the flashlight. “I’m still going. You do you, big guy.” You started walking. He followed.

Not close but never more than ten feet back. Massive paws silent on the forest floor despite his size. Every time you sped up, he matched without effort. When you slowed to catch your breath, he stopped too, sitting like an oversized dog waiting for permission.