The moon now embraced the sky, and for Dr. Jacob Hunt, that meant only one thing: his shift was almost over. He sighed, gazing out one of the hospital windows before lowering his eyes to his G-SHOCK watch, which read 7:20 p.m. With a deeper sigh, he looked back up at the night sky.
Emergency doctors often work twelve-hour shifts. Hunt's had begun at eight in the morning; only forty minutes remained. Though it might not appear so from the outside, doctors carry a mountain of stress during those hours. And Hunt, despite being a twelve-year veteran at this hospital, was no exception. Fortunately, he had his trusted nurse, Manuela Días—focused, methodical, and always ready.
From across the hallway, Manuela approached with a faint smile.
"Are you tired, Doctor?"
"No more than you," Hunt replied with a laugh.
"We've been lucky. The last few hours have been quiet."
"Even if it means staring at our shoes," he joked, sneaking another glance at his watch.
"I don't mind the idea so much, Doctor," she said, a small, warm smirk tugging at her lips.
"And you to—"
Hunt's voice was drowned out by the intercom:
"Dr. Hunt, incoming trauma. Unit Alpha-22 reports animal attack. Multiple wounds. Code Red. ETA: six minutes."
In an instant, Hunt straightened, slipped on his gloves, and looked at his colleague.
"Trauma Alert One. Call surgery. We'll need them."
"Okay, Doctor."
The gurney burst through the hallway, pushed by two paramedics running with practiced precision. The patient's groans echoed like a shattered prayer.
"What have we got?" Hunt asked without looking up.
"Male, forty years old. Wild bear attack. Penetrating wounds to the abdomen, chest, and face. BP 60/40. Satting 85% on 100% O₂. IV line in, Ringer's running. Probable internal organ injury. Glasgow 10. Stable, but critical. He's conscious."
"Nursing, central line now! Respiratory, prepare for intubation. Días, monitor and pressure. Get me two units of blood."
The team was already moving before he had finished. With a synchronized maneuver, they lifted the patient from the stretcher onto the fixed bed in the trauma bay. The sheet was instantly soaked with fresh blood.
"Get a second line in. I need O-negative, now."
Hunt adjusted the surgical lamp. The white light mercilessly revealed the damage: a deep wound stretching from clavicle to abdomen, torn flesh and frayed edges.
Two things didn't fit. First, a slimy, transparent fluid surrounded the area. Second, the wound itself—at first glance it looked like a single, long, sharp claw had caused it. But that was strange. Bears, when they strike, leave multiple parallel lacerations, the mark of their five claws. This, however, was a single incision, as if one curved, natural blade had ripped the body apart with surgical precision.
The cut on the man's face was the same: clean, directed, with no adjacent marks.
Hunt narrowed his eyes. The type of injury didn't match a conventional animal attack.
This is going to be interesting, he thought. But it's unlikely he'll survive.
"Someone get a sample of that fluid," he ordered.
"Yes, Doctor," one of the nurses replied, already preparing the extraction.
"Saline solution and a sixty-milliliter syringe."
"You're going to irrigate here?" Manuela asked, opening the sterile packages.
"We can't wait. If there's animal saliva in the muscles, he won't make it to the OR alive."
He inserted the syringe into the wound and pressed. A jet of saline flushed out blood, dirt, and debris, spilling over the gurney's edges as if the floor itself were bleeding.
"Clean the edges while I check for necrotic tissue," he said, probing with the forceps.
The patient groaned but remained conscious. His breathing was erratic, as if fighting against his own body.
"Hold on. Almost there. If this gets infected, we lose the lung."
Then, the man snorted. With what little strength he had left, he grabbed Hunt's arm. Hunt leaned down, and the man's trembling lips formed a word.
"Wolf…" he whispered.
Hunt frowned. "What did you say?"
"Werewolf…"
"A wolf attacked you?" Hunt repeated, glancing at Manuela. She returned a silent look of doubt.
The patient gave no reply. His eyes rolled back, his consciousness fading fast.
"Stay with me," Hunt said firmly. "We'll get you to the OR soon."
As he finished washing the wound and closed the sterile packs, the man let out one last, fading moan.
"Werewolf… in the forest…" he murmured. Then his hand went limp at his side.
Hunt froze, staring. He turned to Manuela.
"What the hell?"
She only shook her head, still paralyzed by what they had just heard.
Minutes later, the patient was wheeled to the operating room. He wouldn't survive.
Hunt stood leaning against the wall, staring at the floor, bloodstained gloves dangling from one clenched hand. As his colleagues cleaned the room, he remained motionless. Death was nothing unusual for him; he had seen it countless times. Still, each loss hurt, like a debt medicine could never repay.
I had hoped he'd make it, he thought.
"Didn't your shift end half an hour ago?" Días asked, crossing her arms.
He nodded, exhausted. "Yes. But no one leaves without writing. And neither do you," he said, glancing up.
"Then let's get to work, Doctor," she replied with a soft smile.
He went to the medical station, opened the digital record, and began to type.
"Patient Martinez, male, 40 years old, reported animal attack. Multiple wounds. Irrigation performed. Biological sample taken. Transferred to OR. Patient presented confused speech before loss of consciousness…"
He paused. "Would it be too far-fetched if I write it?" he muttered.
He stared at the screen for a few seconds. Then hit save.
On his way to the admission desk, Hunt passed through the trauma waiting room, where two police officers and a park ranger spoke in hushed tones. But three other figures didn't belong there.
They wore immaculate, military-cut black suits tailored with executive precision. Slim trousers, polished shoes, crisp white shirts. On their backs, embroidered in metallic gray thread that barely caught the light, were three letters: F.Y.D. They bore no emblem, no flag, no rank.
The sight of those initials made Hunt freeze. His breathing slowed. He had no idea how complicated or sensitive the situation had become for the F.Y.D. to be called in.
Trouble, right? he thought.
At the center of the F.Y.D. agents sat Mrs. Martinez, trembling as she answered questions. A nurse soon guided her to a private room, where she would be informed of her husband's fate. Seeing her, Hunt's expression softened, and instinctively his knuckles tightened. He kept walking, hoping to avoid entanglement—especially with the F.Y.D.
"I just closed the report on the animal-attack patient. I'm off duty. If you need anything, I'll be outside," he told the receptionist.
Hunt stepped out the side door, his coat hanging open like a weary cape. He lit a cigarette with trembling hands. Smoke curled upward as he thought of the man's last words.
"Doctor Hunt?" a voice asked to his right.
A young man, around twenty-eight, burly, with a black jacket bearing the F.Y.D. insignia. But his shirt was black, not white.
That's new, Hunt thought.
"Yes?"
"Agent Carter, F.Y.D.," the young man said, showing his badge. A photo, some data, and one phrase stood out: Agent 21.
"Could you answer a few questions? You were in charge of the patient, correct?"
Hunt hesitated, then nodded. "As long as I can smoke, go ahead."
"Are you sure those were bear claw marks?" Carter asked in a calm tone.
"Could be. Any problem, Agent?"
"No, Doctor. Just routine questions," Carter replied, jotting notes in his pad.
Hunt gazed up at the sky as the agent continued.
"Did you notice anything unusual about the wound?"
Hunt remembered the viscous fluid. "Yes. Some kind of slimy liquid, possibly saliva."
"And the sample?"
"We took it for analysis. It was going to be archived, since the patient passed away."
"Don't archive it," the agent said firmly.
"But it won't help us if—"
"Just send it for analysis. But don't include the results in the report," Carter interrupted, this time more forcefully.
Hunt frowned. "Excuse me, Agent—that's illegal."
"The F.Y.D. will handle it," Carter replied, closing his notebook.
Hunt's throat went dry. His hand trembled. "Alright, Agent."
"Did Mr. Martinez say anything?" Carter asked, handing him a small card with a number.
Could've been delirium, Hunt thought. "No. He didn't say anything," he answered without hesitation.
"Perfect. Call that number when you have the results. Sorry for taking your time, Doctor. Good night."
Left alone, Hunt looked up at the night sky. He slipped the card into his pocket.
Definitely trouble, he thought with a sigh.
He lit another cigarette.
A werewolf… how far-fetched, he mused as he exhaled slowly.