The world had collapsed under ash and silence,
the sky a permanent bruise of grey. Cities were
ghosts, and the few survivors clung to whatever
scraps remained. Among them was Elias Vane, a
former lover of the infamous billionaire
Lysandra Hart, now ruler of the last functioning
enclave in the north. Their relationship had
ended with a single gunshot—Elias had refused to
kill for her, and she had left him for dead.
Lysandra needed an escort for a highprofile
trade mission to the south, but the roads were
lawless, and trust was currency. She chose Elias,
not for loyalty, but because his bloodline
carried the old gene—the one that made him a
werewolf. The enclave’s scientists had long
since abandoned the study of such things, but
Lysandra had kept her own secrets.
They met at the edge of the ruins of Manchester,
where the air still smelled of rust and rot.
Elias wore a tattered coat, his eyes sharp
beneath the shadows. Lysandra arrived in a black
armoured vehicle, flanked by armed guards. No
greetings. No pleasantries. Just a contract
signed in blood.
Their journey began under the cover of night,
the road littered with the bones of the dead.
Lysandra had made it clear: if he faltered, he
would be left behind. Elias knew the rules. He
had learned them the hard way.
By day, they moved through the wastes, avoiding
the scavenger clans and the mutated beasts that
roamed the land. By night, Elias transformed.
The full moon had long since vanished, replaced
by a strange, artificial light from the
enclave’s orbital satellites. But the change
still came, slow and painful. His claws dug into
the earth, his senses sharpened beyond human
limits. He could smell the fear in Lysandra’s
breath, even when she tried to hide it.
She had known this would happen. She had planned
for it.
On the third night, as they camped near the
remains of a railway line, Lysandra revealed the
truth. The enclave’s satellites weren’t just
monitoring the land—they were controlling it.
The new moon was a lie, a construct designed to
keep the werewolves docile. Those who resisted
were culled, their bodies used to refine the
satellites’ algorithms.
Elias had been one of them.
He had fought back once, years ago, before she
had taken him down. She had kept him alive, not
out of mercy, but to use him. To test whether a
werewolf could be controlled.
The next morning, they reached the southern
border. The trade was simple: weapons, supplies,
and a promise of protection. But Lysandra had no
intention of letting him go.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the
satellite light dimmed, and the real moon rose.
Elias felt the shift in his bones. The control
was slipping.
He turned on her.
The fight was brutal, fast, and silent.
Lysandra’s guards fell first, then her
bodyguards, then the traders. Elias moved like a
storm, his claws tearing through metal and flesh
alike. Lysandra, unarmed, stood her ground. She
had expected this. She had prepared for this.
But she hadn’t counted on the truth.
In the end, it wasn’t the werewolf that killed
her—it was the man.
Elias stood over her body, the weight of the
past pressing down on him. The enclave would
come for him soon. The satellites would track
his DNA, mark him as a threat.
He didn’t care.
He burned the contract, fed it to the fire, and
walked into the night, the wind carrying the
scent of freedom and the taste of blood.
