Chapter 1

I’m a werewolf.

Three months ago, I got involved in a back-alley “not my problem”—a man held a knife to a woman clutching her child. I rushed him and tore his throat out with my teeth.

Now the police are hunting me. My pack can’t protect me. The only option left is to slip out of the country.

The fixer at the meet hands me a bottle of “calming meds,” says it’ll get me through the checkpoints.

I smell the drugs anyway. I drink it.

When I wake up, my hands are tied behind my back inside a sealed metal cargo truck. Someone beside me is crying. Someone else is shaking.

That’s when I realize I’ve been sold into a trafficking ring. They slap a number tag on me, lock me in a steel cage, and wait for dawn to ship us out.

A guard cracks my face with a rifle stock—sure I’m just another desperate man trying to disappear.

He has no idea a cage can’t hold a werewolf.

Especially not tonight—under a full moon.

————

Rain hammered the windshield. Inside the car there was only the low hum of the engine and the slap of tires cutting through standing water.

I kept both hands on the wheel. A faint hiss of static came through my earbud, then a female anchor’s voice.

“We continue to follow the brutal attack outside the city. Police confirm the male victim suffered severe tearing to the neck, and the scene contained a large amount of blood. The suspect remains at large. Authorities warn the public not to approach—call police immediately with any information.”

I turned the volume down one notch.

The next line was even blunter: “Police have set up temporary checkpoints on multiple outbound routes and expanded patrol coverage.”

It hit like a nail: fewer exits, less time.

“According to eyewitness accounts, the wound pattern does not match cuts made by common tools. It appears more consistent with powerful tearing. Police have not released further details, but stress the suspect is extremely dangerous.”

A night of rain can smooth everything out. Even faces.

But some things don’t wash away—smell, memory, and the restlessness in my blood that answers the moon.

“We’ve just obtained a blurry piece of CCTV footage,” the reporter went on. “The image shows a tall figure in a dark jacket. Police urge the public, if you see someone matching these characteristics—”

I didn’t wait for her to finish. I reached up and killed the playback.

The world became too quiet, leaving only the rain and my breathing.

I didn’t need their warning. The person they were looking for was me.

It didn’t matter. Tonight, I was leaving this land.

On the navigation screen, a blue route line curved around the city and pointed to a bright dot ahead: a logistics service plaza.

That was the meet point—the location sent by the smuggler, along with a short reminder: Don’t bring trouble. Bring cash.

Road signs surfaced through the rain and vanished behind me. I kept my speed just under the limit, not fast, not slow, like any other man trying to get somewhere.

I knew the real trouble wasn’t on the road. It was inside my body.

My name is Kellan Wolfe. I’m a werewolf.

To outsiders, I’m just another guy running jobs between states—clean paperwork, a work history that looks believable enough.

But I’m the only one who knows that if I’m pushed past a certain threshold, or if the moon sits where it shouldn’t, the rules inside me take over.

The memory of that night flashed through my head in shards.

It wasn’t my first loss of control, but it was the first time I left marks that obvious.

At the end of an alley, a man had a knife pressed to a woman holding a child, spitting curses. I could have backed off. I could have called the cops. I could have pretended I never saw it, and kept being the kind of stranger who survives by staying small.

But my body made the decision first.

I lunged in and grabbed his wrist. He fought, drove the blade at me, and the tip sliced my shoulder. Warm blood welled immediately, and my vision flared red.

The next second, my canines pushed against my tongue, and I bit.

It happened so fast I only remember the taste and the sound.

Blood sprayed. His scream jammed in his throat like it had been cut off mid-note.

The woman with the child collapsed to the ground.

By the time I understood what I’d done, it was already too late. The shape on the pavement was still twitching. His neck looked torn open, the edges ragged—nothing like a knife wound.

I ran that night. The next day my pack found me and demanded answers. Wolves live in groups. We protect our own.

But the mess I’d made was too big. They couldn’t cover it. In the end, I chose the fastest way out—leave now, don’t drag them down with me.

The service plaza lights appeared in the distance. More vehicles. A row of trucks. Drivers smoking under the convenience store awning.

The noise made it safer. In crowds, danger gets diluted.

I parked at the far edge, near a dead vending machine, where the angle conveniently dodged the front view of two cameras.

The middleman had told me: don’t use names. Just say the line.

I walked into the convenience store. Candy and energy drinks sat in neat rows. Behind the counter, a TV looped the news.

A blurred screenshot flashed across the screen. My outline was broken into pixels, but the posture—leaning forward like I was about to spring—was unmistakable.

The cashier glanced at me, then dropped his eyes back to his phone. He cared more about today’s discounts.

I paused by the hot food case, pretending to consider sausages and coffee while I scanned the room: two drivers in work jackets, three young guys, a couple with a kid. No uniforms. No one watching me.

The door chime rang. A man stepped in, rain dripping from his brim. He wore a worn leather jacket, his face half swallowed by shadow.

He stopped beside me at the hot case as if he was shopping too.

“Weather’s bad,” he said.

That was our code. He was the one.

I didn’t look at him. My voice stayed even, casual. “Bad enough you can’t see the road.”

He gave a small grunt and drifted toward the shelves. A few seconds later, I followed.

“So you’re the one in a hurry to get out,” he said.

“Where’s the route?” I asked.

He finally turned his head. “Easy. You’re late. They added two checkpoints. Tonight won’t be clean. Price goes up.”

“The money’s in my car,” I said. “I’m asking one thing. Are we moving or not?”

He smiled, not warmly—testing me. “Your type always wants things simple. Fine. We move. Get in, and don’t stand here. The TV’s basically playing your little situation.”

He called it “your little situation” like it was a bar fight.

We left the store. The rain had gotten thicker.

He led me around the truck bays toward an unremarkable dark box van. From the outside it looked like any other logistics vehicle.

I didn’t climb in right away. I checked the area first: two people unloading in the distance, someone on a phone near the pumps. No one paying attention to us.

The middleman stepped close and produced a small bottle. The label said sports drink, but my instincts said otherwise.

He lowered his voice. “A sedative. You need to look like a normal guy at the checkpoints. I’ve seen too many people blow it because they can’t stop shaking.”

I twisted the cap and caught the smell—sweet at the top, and under it a thin, disguised chemical bite.

A normal person wouldn’t notice. I did.

I looked up at him. “You sure it’s a sedative?”

“Of course.” He shrugged. “What else would it be? Don’t make this difficult. The road’s messy tonight, and I’m not getting dragged down because you want to play tough.”

He said it like he was protecting himself from me. The tone underneath was control, practiced and automatic.

I didn’t drink right away. I touched a drop to my tongue.

Bitter. Metallic.

Even if it wasn’t a sedative, it didn’t change the math. My body doesn’t run like a human body. I metabolize faster. Most poisons won’t kill me—at worst they make me vomit. And most tranquilizers won’t keep me down all night.

I needed a channel. I needed out.

If I tried another route now, time would run out, and the checkpoints would only tighten.

Whatever he could offer might be the only window left.

I drank it in front of him. Cold sweetness slid down my throat, followed by the dull sting of the drug.

“Now we go,” I said.

He smiled like he’d been waiting for that. “That’s more like it. Get in.”

I pulled the sliding door open and climbed into the back seat.

The door shut behind me, cutting the rain off like a switch.

Inside, rubber, engine oil, and sweat mixed together. The syrupy scent of cheap air freshener couldn’t cover it.

The middleman walked around and got into the front passenger seat.

He spoke to the driver in a language I didn’t recognize, like he was confirming a step.

Then the “sports drink” rolled in my stomach. The drug rose fast, like a tide.

The edges of my vision grayed out. My fingertips dulled. Even my breathing slowed by half a beat.

Good. The bottle—disguised as a sedative, disguised as a sports drink—was doing exactly what it was supposed to do.

I reached for the sliding door handle. The moment I pulled, a sharp click came from outside—another lock dropped into place.

Not a casual lock. A second latch, meant for me.

The middleman turned his head and glanced at me through the rearview mirror. His voice was impatient. “Don’t move. You’ll be fine in a minute.”

I already knew what came next. Strangely, that made me calmer.

“You’re selling me,” I said.

He didn’t answer. He just snorted.

I stopped trying the door.

At that point, I didn’t want an escape route. I wanted the man in the front seat to stop breathing.

I launched forward, my body a dark blur slamming into the front seats. The middleman reacted fast, starting to turn, lifting an arm—

—but my canines were already pushing through my gums.

I bit into the side of his neck.

The feel of skin tearing was sharp and clear. Hot blood flooded my mouth, and the shock of it snapped my mind awake like electricity.

He made a choking sound. His fingers clawed at my wrist, but the strength drained out of him fast.

He tried to scream. Only bloody foam came out.

The driver swore, the van swerved hard, and he forced the wheel back under control.

The next second, a hand came back from the driver’s side. A needle flashed cold in the dim light and plunged into the side of my neck.

I didn’t let go.

I drove my teeth deeper until the middleman stopped fighting altogether. His body sagged in the passenger seat, head lolling toward the window, blood running down the seatbelt.

“Jesus—” The driver’s voice cracked. Fear cut through his anger.

He shoved more drug in and stomped the gas. The van surged forward, tires spraying water.

The numbness spread too fast. I finally had to release my bite. Blood dripped from the corner of my mouth.

The driver didn’t dare look back, only watched me in the mirror, breathing hard. “You’re crazy… You’re crazy!”

I wanted to laugh, but all I had in my throat was blood.

My eyelids grew heavier. My consciousness felt like a hand pressing it down.

In the last second before the dark took me, I locked one thought into place—

This isn’t a ride out. This is a cage truck.

Doesn’t matter.

Tonight… looks like a full moon.