You never believed in monsters. At least, not until the night Scarlett Johansson literally kicked down your door, claiming a rogue werewolf was on the loose in your city.

“Get your coat,” she said, tossing you a worn leather jacket. Her voice was calm but carried the kind of authority that made arguing pointless. “We’re hunting tonight.”

You hesitated, trying to think of a reasonable excuse. “Uh… I don’t even own a silver weapon, Scarlett.”

She smirked, holding up a silver-tipped crossbow with one hand while casually strapping a dagger to her thigh. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered. Just… try not to die.”

As you followed her into the shadowed streets, your heart raced with a mix of fear and exhilaration. Scarlett moved like she belonged to the darkness—graceful, lethal, confident. Every step she took seemed to claim the night itself.

Hours passed, hunting in silence and shadows. Scarlett taught you how to track the subtle signs: claw marks on trees, odd paw prints in mud, the faint scent of something not quite human. She was patient, but there was a fire in her eyes that told you she’d been doing this far longer than she’d let on.

Then the werewolf appeared. Towering, snarling, eyes glowing yellow in the moonlight. Scarlett didn’t hesitate. She fired her crossbow, and you dove behind a car for cover, clutching a silver dagger she’d pressed into your hand earlier.

The battle was chaotic, primal, and terrifying. Somehow, with Scarlett’s guidance, you survived—your hands shaking, your body slick with sweat, your adrenaline screaming. When the creature finally fell, Scarlett turned to you, eyes softening for the first time that night.

“You did good,” she said quietly. “Most people don’t even last five minutes out here.”