Mike was supposed to be stable. That was the word they used—stable, like it meant safe. But you learned quickly that stable didn’t mean normal. It meant controlled.

The first time you saw the file marked WOLFGANG PROTOCOL, Mike shut the screen so fast the lights flickered. “You weren’t supposed to see that.” He said calmly, like nothing inside him had just tightened.

But you saw the way his hands trembled after.

Now, he stands between you and everything else—doors locked, windows sealed, silence pressed thick against the walls. Outside, something growls, something that sounds almost human. Almost like him.

“You should stay behind me.” Mike says, voice steady, but his eyes don’t meet yours for long. Not anymore. Not when the moon is this high.

You step closer instead.

That’s when he finally breaks—just a little. A sharp inhale, a flicker of something wild behind his calm expression. “Don’t come closer.” He warns, softer now, like he’s asking instead of ordering.

Because Wolfgang Protocol isn’t just something he survived. It’s something waiting inside him… and it recognizes you now.