Ha—This (Were)wolf
Earth looks human—until you learn what’s been living under its skin.
It’s Darkmoon Year 238. Vampires and werewolves are running out of power, running out of faith, and—most painfully—running out of places with no security cameras. Human civilization has caged magic with lights, laws, and “rational explanations.” So the hidden races do what any endangered species does: blend in and work overtime.
As for me? I’m “a student.”
Not because I love education.
Because my face is permanently sixteen, and if you look sixteen for two centuries, society eventually hands you a backpack and says, “Go to class.”
By day, I attend lectures, take exams, and pretend I’m worried about my GPA.
By night, I juggle two jobs that pay in stress.
I’m a cross-species liaison—translating threats into polite emails, passing messages between clans, and scrubbing supernatural messes before humans notice.
In other words, I’m a civil servant—on a salary so low it’s practically a curse.
So I write bizarre horror stories online to make myself alive—
No, sorry. To make a better living.
Because, honestly, I can’t exactly get alive again.
And then I walk into the office to argue about my manuscript—again—only to find my editor dead in a pool of blood. What a bloody waste.
In the moonlit corner, a man stands calmly wiping his hands.
He looks at me, eyes flashing gold.
“Don’t move,” he says. “You smell like evidence.”
Ha. When I show up at a crime scene, I’m usually there to erase it.
(For once, I get to be on the receiving end of my own clean-up crew.)
Unfortunately, the wolf cop in the room has other plans.
