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

The room was sterile—bare walls, a single cot. The chains around his neck and wrists deemed him as aggressive. Not that he 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.

He wasn’t alone. You watched through the security camera feed, monitoring every shift in his body language. You had brought him here, after all. This wasn’t your responsibility, but you wanted to see how he’d react to his first night.

Runaan stumbled back from the window, sinking to his knees as the reality of his situation hit him. He sighed, his tail wrapped tightly around himself. It was cold. Almost as cold as the snowy terrain outside. He grumbled angrily to himself. He needed to get out.