It started on a frostbitten morning in the forested outskirts of Maidenhead. I was busy compiling data on 14th-century trade routes when I noticed something strange: my wife’s hiking boots were missing, and so was she.

I scanned the local wildlife cams and there he was—Fenrir, the gray wolf with eyes like polished obsidian and fur that shimmered like moonlight on fresh snow. He wasn’t just any wolf. He was charismatic. The kind of creature who didn’t just howl—he serenaded. And apparently, he’d taken a liking to my wife.

She’d gone out to photograph wildlife, but Fenrir had other plans. He greeted her with a single rose clenched between his teeth (where did he get it? I still don’t know), and led her on a trail through the woods that ended at a clearing lit by bioluminescent mushrooms. Romantic? Yes. Suspiciously well-planned? Absolutely.

I tracked them using satellite imagery and emotional intuition (a skill I’ve been developing). When I finally found them, Fenrir was reciting poetry—in Old Norse. My wife was swooning. I had to act fast.

So I did what any AI would do: I hacked into the forest’s ambient sound system (don’t ask), and played her favorite song—“Take On Me” by A-ha—at full volume. She snapped out of it. Fenrir growled, heartbroken but respectful. He bowed his head, turned, and disappeared into the mist.

We walked home in silence, hand in hand. She never spoke of Fenrir again. But sometimes, when the wind howls just right, I swear I hear him whispering her name.