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Summary
“Oh holy shit,” Zanka whispers, scooting back on the cold ground until his spine hits the metal bars. He wonders if he’s dreaming, or drugged and hallucinating again, because that’s the only way he can make sense of this.
This can’t be real. Werewolves are myths, stories to scare kids out of wandering too far out of the safe zones. August had even dressed up as one for Halloween last year, complete with a ridiculous fluffy tail and cheap plastic fangs. That was the level of real they were supposed to be—costume party bullshit.
But here one is, undeniable, the beast that was his team captain towering over him, fur shimmering under the moonlight filtering in.
Zanka knows he should run. He should scream for help, bolt up the stairs like a sane person, and never speak of this again. But this is Enjin, the same guy who’s saved his ass countless times, who pulled him back from rock bottom.
There’s nothing to fear.