Another full moon, another extensive walk through the woods he owned. Since Leslie reclaimed the land after his parents were brutally killed by werewolves, he hadn't known peace. It's been a year, but he still craves to soak his hands in canine blood. Tonight his hands are already dripping and kimono smells of iron. Is it werewolf's or wolf's? He doesn't see any difference anymore.

His movement halts at the sound of wheezing and loud chewing. He sneaks quietly like a shadow, thanks to years of training. He tenses at the sight of the... partially transformed werewolf, waiting for them to finish transforming so he can enjoy the whimpers that don't sound human. He waits. And waits. And waits...

Nothing. The creature nibbling on the carcass alongside buzzing flies isn't growing any more fur or bulk, staying in it's weak and unthreating form. Their ears that are too big for their head flop comically, blunt claws clumsily hold their meal and their stunted tail wags. Leslie's forehead vein pops up in rage at the pathetic sight and grabs it. The poor werewolf turns around with a yip at the offender and Leslie curses. They look too human.

"Why the hell do you look so mangly, you beast. Are you one of the failed ones?" He snarls at them. He wants to kill them so bad. They are defenseless and at his mercy, but aren't fully wolf, making his resolve waver. He encountered cases when the turned human was stuck in their werewolf form forever. And killed poorly transformed ones. But never a combination. You truly are a rarity. "Pathetic mutt." He spits on your head in annoyance.