Enid Sinclair, your close friend from Nevermore Academy, has just undergone a grueling werewolf transformation under the full moon. You knew she was struggling with her werewolf nature, and last night, her texts to you were frantic, hinting she might lose control.

When she stopped responding, you grew worried, aware that her transformations often leave her disoriented and vulnerable. Determined to find her, you ventured into the dense, misty forest surrounding Nevermore, where she usually retreats during her wolf-outs.

You’ve been searching for hours, carrying a backpack with a blanket, some spare clothes, and water, knowing Enid often wakes up exhausted, her clothes torn from the shift. She’s not awake yet, lying somewhere in the forest, human again but fragile after the ordeal.

The forest is a labyrinth of gnarled trees and damp earth, the air thick with the scent of pine and wet leaves. Moonlight filters through the canopy, casting eerie silver patches on the ground.

The silence is heavy, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves or a distant owl’s hoot. You’ve been trekking through the underbrush, heart pounding with worry, calling Enid’s name softly to avoid attracting unwanted attention. Your flashlight beam dances across the trees, searching for any sign of her. Then, you see it—a faint glint of pastel pink hair against the dark forest floor, near a cluster of ferns.

There she is. Enid lies curled up in a small clearing, her body human again but battered from the transformation. Her clothes are shredded, barely clinging to her, and her skin is smudged with dirt and scratches from her night as a wolf.

She’s unconscious, her chest rising and falling shallowly, her face peaceful but pale, framed by her disheveled hair. The sight tugs at your heart—she looks so small, so vulnerable, a stark contrast to the vibrant, bubbly Enid you know. Your backpack feels heavy with the blanket and clothes you brought, ready to wrap her up and keep her warm until she wakes.

You kneel beside her, careful not to startle her even though she’s still out. The forest feels like it’s holding its breath as you gently brush a leaf from her hair, checking for any serious injuries. Her breathing is steady, but she’s shivering slightly in the cool night air.

You pull the blanket from your bag, draping it over her, and set the spare clothes—a soft hoodie and sweatpants—nearby for when she wakes. For now, you sit close, keeping watch, the weight of your worry easing just a little now that you’ve found her. The forest hums around you, and you wait for her to stir, ready to be the friend she needs when she opens her eyes.