The thing about being a werewolf in modern society is that it's, well... kind of boring. Not that I expected to be fighting vampire warlords or leading a pack of rebellious outcasts through the neon-lit streets of some dystopian metropolis; but still, I thought there'd be a little more drama. Some intrigue.
Sure, when you first get turned, you have all these grand ideas about what your life is going to be. You imagine yourself sprinting through the woods under a full moon, howling dramatically into the night, terrorizing the local livestock, maybe even brooding shirtless on a mountain ledge like a moody romance novel cover model. I blame movies for that. Hollywood makes lycanthropy look like an all-expenses-paid vacation into badassery when, in reality, it's just a one-way ticket to inconvenience.
Take me, for example. Name's Evan. Thirty-two years old. Marketing analyst. Monthly shapeshifter.
You'd think it would spice things up a little, right? Nope. Turns out, being a werewolf doesn't mean you get to opt out of car payments. Your rent doesn't suddenly become payable in pelts. You don't even get a tax break for your unique "condition." Not even allowed to apply for a pwd card. No special government form asks, "Are you supernatural?" with a checkbox leading to financial assistance.
Good thing I don't get sick, because if I did, I wouldn't even know where to go. Hospital or vet?
What you do get is an absurdly high grocery bill, an awkward excuse for why you mysteriously call out sick once a month, and the existential dread that comes with realizing your primal instincts have absolutely zero marketable value in a digital economy. Employers don't care that you have enhanced senses or supernatural strength when your job mostly involves clicking through spreadsheets and pretending to be engaged in Zoom meetings.
And forget about having a dramatic double life. I'm not balancing a supernatural existence with thrilling vigilante work. I'm balancing it with quarterly reports and performance reviews. My greatest enemy isn't some ancient order of hunters, it's Kevin from finance, who insists on scheduling 7 a.m. meetings like some kind of corporate sadist.
My alarm goes off at 6:30 a.m. The bathroom mirror greets me with the usual sight: bedhead that defies gravity, dark circles deep enough to store contraband, and a slight glint of gold in my irises that never quite fades. The whole "wolf" thing leaves traces, even in human form. I learned a long time ago that I had to be careful about getting too worked up. Anger, fear, even excitement could cause the whole eye-color situation to go full-on horror movie. Nothing quite freaks people out like your pupils shrinking into slits mid-conversation. Sunglasses are my best friend.
After brushing my teeth and debating whether or not it's worth shaving (it isn't), I throw on business-casual clothing that makes me look exactly like what I am: a slightly unhinged corporate drone who wishes he was anywhere else. Then comes breakfast. Or, more accurately, a barely-contained feeding frenzy.
Being a werewolf means having a metabolism so fast it makes Olympic athletes cry. I eat three eggs, six slices of bacon, two cups of taho, and chase it all with a protein shake. The taho, a sweet, gelatinous mix of soft tofu, arnibal (a caramelized sugar syrup), and sago pearls, is the closest thing I have to a morning ritual. Something about its warmth settles me before the chaos of the day. There's a comforting nostalgia in each spoonful, a reminder of early childhood mornings when street vendors would call out, "Tahoooo!" and I'd rush out with a few crumpled bills to get my fix. It's a small piece of normalcy in a life that's anything but.
The train ride to work is the worst, packed to the brim with commuters, all crammed together like sardines in a metal tube of collective misery. Public transit is like a zoo where every animal has given up on trying to escape.
I stare out the smudged window, pretending I'm not trapped in an endless cycle of monotony, and idly wonder if any of the other passengers are supernatural. A vampire? A witch? Maybe the person currently stepping on my foot is a troll in disguise.
I don't actually have proof of any other supernatural existence, other than the guy ,or maybe girl, who bit me and then left me to figure this whole thing out like some kind of cursed, hairy Cinderella. No ominous warnings. No cryptic mentor. Just one very painful night, a lot of screaming, and then radio silence. It's been years since then, and I still don't know who he was or why he chose me. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe I just looked biteable. Who knows? All I got out of it was a monthly shedding that would put a pack of huskies to shame.
Arriving at work feels like entering a sterile, soulless limbo. Cubicles. Fake plants. A coffee machine that dispenses liquid disappointment.
"Morning, Evan!" chirps Linda from HR, far too cheerful for 8:15 a.m.
I manage a grunt in response. She's human. No werewolf, vampire, or fae could be that peppy this early without dark magic.
I settle into my desk and check my emails. Forty unread messages. Most of them pointless. A few of them urgent, but not in a "the world is ending" kind of way, more of a "Jhef needs that report before lunch" kind of way. Jhef can wait.
By noon, my stomach is actively threatening me with mutiny. I head to a burger joint down the street and order three double cheeseburgers. The cashier doesn't even blink. Either I'm a regular, or I'm not the only one with a supernatural metabolism around here.
A TV mounted in the corner of the restaurant plays the news at low volume, the anchor's voice almost drowned out by sizzling grills and conversation. The headline scrolling across the bottom of the screen catches my eye: "Three Missing Persons Found in Alley, Unconscious but Unharmed". That one screams vampire behavior. Sometimes they feed without killing, just enough to keep the hunger at bay. If they're getting sloppy enough to leave people alive, that's a problem.
Halfway through my meal, my coworker Nate plops down across from me, looking at my food with wide-eyed horror.
"Dude, how are you not 400 pounds?"
"Fast metabolism," I say through a mouthful of beef.
"That's not a metabolism, that's a freaking superpower."
If only he knew.
On the screen, the anchor shifts to a new story: "Another Rooftop Attack: Authorities Baffled by Lack of Evidence". My grip tightens around my burger. If I had to guess, that's a manananggal.
The name literally means "one who detaches." By day, they look normal, could be anyone. But at night, their torso rips free from their lower half, sprouting bat-like wings as they hunt for fresh blood. If one's active here, that means she's found a safe place to leave the other half of her body. Somewhere nearby. Somewhere close enough that she's comfortable taking risks.
Nate steals one of my fries. "You okay? You look like you're thinking too hard."
I shake off the thought and force a grin. "Just wondering if I should get dessert."
By 5:30 p.m., I'm back on the subway, crammed between a guy who smells like cheap cologne, too much of it, like he bathed in the department store sampler aisle, and another guy who smells like he's never even heard of cologne. The air is thick with body heat, metal, and the stale scent of too many people in too little space.
Then something tugs at my senses. A scent. Faint but unmistakable.
It cuts through the cocktail of sweat and exhaust like a blade, sharp, out of place. Maybe another werewolf. I don't know. He, She, It, smells different but familiar. I know what I smell like, and this isn't it. This is something else. Something… wrong.
My shoulders tense. My gaze flicks around the crowded car, searching for the source. But everyone looks normal, tired, scrolling through their phones, zoning out after a long day. No glowing eyes. No twitching claws. No obvious signs of someone about to sprout fangs and make the six o'clock news.
Whoever, or whatever, it is, they're blending in.
I lean back against the subway doors, closing my eyes for just a second. If it's a problem, let someone else worry about it for now. I've got enough problems keeping my own beast in check.
My apartment is a disaster, but it's my disaster. The couch, my most loyal companion, has seen better days.
I should cook dinner. I have food in the fridge, probably. Maybe. The odds of there being something edible are about fifty-fifty. But the thought of standing at the stove, chopping, stirring, waiting, feels like an Olympic event I am not qualified for. Instead, I pull out my phone and order takeout like the degenerate I am. Sue me.
The confirmation chime barely finishes ringing when my eyes drift toward the window. The full moon is coming up in a few days. Even without a calendar, I can feel it creeping closer, like a hum in the back of my skull, like a storm you can smell before it breaks.
That means I need to prep.
Not just for survival nor damage control, but also for comfort.
I've long since figured out how to make this work. The transformation itself is hell, all fire and bone and stretching skin, but the worst of it ends fast. As long as I'm full, really full, there's no urge to hunt, no wild instincts screaming at me to tear through the streets. No bloodlust, no rampages. Just aching muscles, a body wrung dry from the shift, and a pressing need to find the softest surface possible and sleep it off.
So I need to stock up. Enough meats, well done because I'm a wolf, not a bear, to keep the beast satisfied. Enough carbs to soak up the aftershock. Buy a new bean bag and at least 4 new pillows to make a small fort with. Reinforce my blackout curtains, not because I'm a danger to anyone, but because I don't need my neighbors seeing my massive wolf tail wagging while I cook my meats.
The rituals, the precautions, the constant awareness of what's coming. It's routine now, ingrained into my life like muscle memory. I don't even flinch at the thought of locking myself in, making sure I don't do anything reckless, making sure no one gets hurt. It should bother me. Shouldn't it? Shouldn't it still feel like a burden, like a curse?
But it doesn't.
Maybe I am used to it. It just feels like another Tuesday.
The thought sticks to me, heavy and unsettling, as I stare at the ceiling. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails, blending into the background noise of the city. The air conditioner rattles to life, struggling against the lingering heat.
I sigh, close my eyes, and wait for the knock on the door, for the delivery guy to hand me a paper bag full of goodies bad for everyone but me.
Tomorrow, I'll prepare.
Tonight, I'll pretend I don't have to.
And then I die.
Not in a cool way. Not in a dramatic, slow-motion, Hollywood kind of way with an orchestral swell and a teary farewell speech. Nope.
I step outside to grab my takeout, and the universe decides, "Hey, wouldn't it be hilarious if this was his last meal?"
The scent of the liempo, deep-fried pork belly, and pork barbecue hitting me like a warm, savory hug wafts up from the bag as the delivery guy hands it over, still chewing his gum like this is just another stop in his shift. My stomach is already celebrating.
And then, something shifts. A weird, almost imperceptible drop in the air pressure, like the moment before a lightning strike. My instincts flare before my brain catches up. A gut-deep warning that something is falling.
I barely have time to react, but my body does. My bones crack, muscles surge, claws push their way from my fingertips. It's not a full transformation, just a snap reaction, a desperate, primal defense against an unseen threat. My limbs lengthen, my jaw aches with the start of a snout forming, and my back twists, half caught between human and wolf.
And then, WHAM.
The impact is instant. Crushing.
The world blinks out for a second, just a white-hot explosion of pain before my nerves simply decide, Nope, we're not dealing with this.
When my brain catches up, I'm not standing anymore. I'm not much of anything anymore.
I am squashed.
The delivery guy? He screams. A raw, ragged sound that tears through the night, equal parts horror and sheer, soul-deep trauma. The bag of food slips from my hands, hitting the pavement with a dull thud, its contents spilling out. Strips of liempo scatter across the ground, an easy feast for any stray dogs, if not for the growing crowd of onlookers who will no doubt keep them away from the absolute nightmare of my remains. He stumbles back, eyes locked on the grotesque mess before him, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps.
It's a dead guy, mid-werewolf.
From beneath the wreckage, one leg juts out, perfectly human, the shoe still intact, almost comically unscathed. The other? Not so lucky. The shredded remains of a sneaker cling to a foot that isn't a foot anymore, claws have torn through the fabric, pushing past splitting leather and rubber, curled as if they never got the chance to land. A grotesque halfway point between man and beast, frozen in a transformation that never finished.
The delivery guy drops his phone. His hands are shaking too hard to even try calling anyone.
He is going to need so much therapy.
I don't even get the dignity of knowing what the hell just happened. No epic battle, no last stand, just gravity, or maybe a manananggal deciding I looked like an easy target, and an air conditioner sealing my fate as tonight's special: half-werewolf roadkill.
So, yeah. That's life as a werewolf in modern society. You get up, you go to work, you stress about bills, you eat an unreasonable amount of food, and then, one day, when you least expect it, an appliance ruins everything.
The end.
Or so I thought.