The city at night was quieter than usual—or maybe I was just listening differently, every sense sharpened. After separating from Sammi and Jay, the emptiness of the streets pressed in, every shadow twisting into potential threats. Footsteps echoed behind me—mine, deliberate, precise—and the distant hum of traffic carried faintly on the wind.
Then I heard it: a low, guttural growl, distant but unmistakable. My chest tightened. Hunters weren't my only concern anymore. Something else prowled the streets, something wild and dangerous. The scent hit me next: sharp, musky, like rain-soaked fur mixed with iron.
Werewolves.
I froze, instincts flaring. These weren't humans, and they weren't predictable. Territorial, powerful, coordinated—this pack would kill on instinct alone if I made the slightest mistake.
I melted into the shadows, pressing against a crumbling brick wall, knife ready. Four figures emerged ahead, moving with a fluid, predatory rhythm. Muscles coiled, eyes glowing faintly in the dim neon light. They prowled in unison, sniffing the air, testing boundaries.
I had to act carefully. Werewolves didn't need weapons to be lethal. Strength, speed, reflexes—they had all of it. One wrong step, and I could be torn apart before I even had a chance to fight.
I edged backward, mind racing, searching for a route: rooftops, alleys, fire escapes. Nothing perfect. The lead wolf let out a low, warning growl. Its amber eyes locked on me, sharp and unyielding. I pressed myself against the wall, heart hammering.
"Think," I muttered under my breath. "Don't panic. Move."
The pack split slightly, giving me the opening I needed. I bolted, knife in hand, moving through alleyways like water, unpredictable and silent. Their growls echoed behind me, but I had learned enough from hunters—and from living alone—to evade with precision.
Rooftops offered temporary safety. I leapt from one building to the next, fog curling around me, masking my movement. The wolves were fast, coordinated, but they couldn't follow every unpredictable path. A miscalculation on their part was enough to give me an advantage.
Still, the danger wasn't gone. One wolf lunged from a lower rooftop, landing close enough that its claws scraped the concrete. I sidestepped, knife flashing in a precise motion. I didn't aim to kill—just enough to warn, to distract.
The pack hesitated, thrown off by my unexpected tactics. I used the moment to scale a fire escape, slipping through scaffolding, silent and precise.
Finally, I found a narrow corridor leading to back streets, fog thickening and masking my scent. I paused, listening. The pack had regrouped but was cautious now, unsure of my next move.
I allowed a small, bitter smile. "Not humans. Not hunters. But practice, nonetheless."
The encounter had been a warning: the world was full of predators, not all of them human. Survival wasn't just about evading hunters—it was about anticipating every threat, adapting, and staying one step ahead.
By the time dawn touched the city with pale light, I had moved far from the werewolves' territory. Soaked, exhausted, and tense, I was alive. Alone. Independent. Dangerous.
I pressed my back against a building, letting the first light wash over me. The fog lifted slightly, but the memory of the encounter lingered. The city was alive, dangerous, and full of predators—but I had survived another test.
And as I stepped forward, shadows stretching ahead like dark promises, I knew one thing: the dangers wouldn't stop. The hunters were still out there, and the pack might return—but I would meet every threat head-on, sharpened by experience, and unbroken.