xxxvii. When Death Comes A Knockin'

“Wait, explain it to me again because, honestly, I don’t understand.”

“I said,” Hakyeon cleared his throat dramatically, holding the end of his phone to his lips so that his voice went directly into the transceiver, “you can get right back on that plane. The problem has solved itself.”

“We landed not even ten minutes ago and you already want us to leave the country?” The man on the other side of the phone sighed heavily, and a moment or two went by before he finally found the words to say in response to Hakyeon’s nonchalant command, “Let me review for you briefly how disgustingly absurd you’re being lately. You tell us there’s no need to interfere when you leave the city without a single notice you would beforehand. You tell us everything is all well and good while everyone in Denmark is practically having a heart attack. Then, out of nowhere, you freak out and tell us we have to fly over to Springfield “posthaste,” “asap,” “like hell itself is nipping at our heels,” without explaining why – though, I must admit, not much explanation is needed there considering the mass migration of the hunters we’d be blind not to notice. Now, after we finally arrive, you want us to go back to Thailand? Do you know how much the plane ticket was, Hakyeon? Do you?”

Hakyeon rolled his eyes, leaning back in one of many wooden chairs within the library: a place he learned to appreciate after realizing it was the last place anyone, besides the one person he wanted to, would look for him in. Was it his image? Was it not in his character to like books? Did he look more like the type of guy to wait until they made the movie and skip the difficult part that involved sitting down and actually dedicating his time to something? That was a question he’d have to address later as he lolled his head back, staring up at the high ceiling above him, “We both know it’s not your money you’re spending.”

“Unlike you, I’m not a prodigal son who can get away with doing whatever he wants.”

“I’ll talk to your dad when I get back.”

The man laughed mirthlessly, ashamed of how simple Hakyeon had made it seem to sway the minds of his ever quick to punish parents – whose punishments were, on a weekly basis, in response to him acting out on Hakyeon’s account. Embarrassed that it truly was simple. It was easy. It could have been done over the phone. Via text. Via a single gesture of displeasure with their anger towards him. And yet, despite his humiliation, he responded with a sarcastic, “You owe them an extravagant honeymoon in an exotic location; the kind you only ever see on movie screens.”

“Done.” Hakyeon promised, soothing the resentment of his childhood friend just as easily as he had incited it, “Tell them to keep their schedule open this summer.”

“And how about everyone else’s parents?” The man added, not forgetting to take care to mention them to Hakyeon, who obviously had other things on his mind.

“It’ll be a group trip. Lots of family bonding and whatnot. Happy?” Hakyeon smiled, leaning back in his chair until it tipped backwards, allowing him enough room to kick his feet up onto the wooden table. The librarian looked up from her desk at the sound of his rough sole landing upon its surface, spotting the phone in his hand and his feet on the table immediately, only to draw her attention back to what she was previously doing. She had learnt by now that there was no point in telling him to stop since he never really listened. Since he’d pretend as though he forgot each and every day, she gave up on him – quite unlike the young man now on the phone with him. That plus he had a charming way with words that made her efforts to discipline him feel as though they took more and more out of her each and every time.

“This Song Hyunjoo has got to be quite the girl for you to promise such a thing so easily without trying to cleverly defend yourself in the least.” The nameless young man remarked, knowing nothing of you who went by the name but your name itself.

“Firstly, I never knew you thought me clever, Hongbin.” Hakyeon’s smile spread across his face in a jesterly manner, practically spreading from one ear to the next.

The nameless young man, whose name was now thusly revealed to be Hongbin, couldn’t help but laugh, “Yeah, sure you didn’t, you witty bastard.”

Hakyeon’s expression soured in response to Hongbin’s less-than-thought-out phrasing of his words, his feet descending off of the table and down onto the ground once more, “Secondly, you know that term in no way applies to me, no matter how witty I may be.”

“Right, I forgot.” Hongbin forewent apologizing upfront for his indiscretion, knowing the best way to appeal to Hakyeon, just as the latter knew to placate him: through humor. With a tone that was anything but serious, Hongbin declared, “You have a brother complex. My bad.”

Hakyeon’s scowl faded within mere seconds, an impassive line marking itself upon his face, his eyes busying themselves with the act of checking his shirt for any loose balls of fabric that may have gathered after the wash, “I don’t have a brother complex.”

And Hakyeon could practically see the shrug Hongbin gave, even if he couldn’t see Hongbin physically so as to verify if he truly did or did not, as he said, “That’s what they all say.”

Not wanting to ramble on about such an insignificant topic, he changed the subject, picking off one last piece of fuzz from the hem of his shirt, picking up from where he left off, “Thirdly, we’ll see you soon.”

And Hongbin laughed again, “I’m sure you two will. You never were one to miss a date.”

With the swipe of a finger, Hakyeon ended the call, in a mood much different from the state of panic he had been in just mere days before. But, he dismissed it, just as he dismissed the need to practice the rules of how one should act in a library. He leaned back in his chair again, kicking his legs up, staring down that empty place adjacent from him, teetering on the edge of danger and yet, still safe.

Safe, just like the piece of metal that weighed heavy in his jacket pocket.

Safe, for the time being.

This was what you had been instructed to do. This was your role: to act as the messenger between both sides of the battle currently being fought on opposite ends of the forest. The large hillside whose path you had taken twice now was the only thing separating the two. Just a small hill, and yet it never felt bigger that it did now. Now, when the information you had to convey to the others could be akin to a home run, a game changer, a tiny piece of knowledge that could have stopped the fighting almost as quickly as it had all began with the sudden and unforeseen mass power outage.

With the snapping of a wire from its electrical pole, only one kind of particular fairytale you knew of capable of doing such a thing, this could all be over.

And because of this seemingly hopeless hope, because you had separated from B-bomb who had run towards Zico and Dongwoo with the news you were sprinting towards Sungyeol, Sungjong, and P.O to deliver, because you were too focused on the bright future, you failed to notice the foreboding present which, quite literally, whipped around the corner and smacked you with a fist full of whiplash.

You fell to the ground, the end of a gun to your temple surprising you, as it would anyone, to the point where you could only stare dumbstruck from your position on the shaking ground. Your eyes blurred in and out and in and out. It felt like a group of carpenters had begun construction on the frontal lobe of your brain. Hammering away, piercing into gray matter with thick nails, they swung away to the beat the world danced to.

You were at the mercy of your attacker.

Your attacker who, at that point in time, holstered his gun and cleared his throat, “Let’s get introductions out of the way, shall we? Since I know you’re name already, Song Hyunjoo, I suppose it’s time I introduce myself.” The short man leaned forward, extending an open palm, flashing a set of pearly whites, flipping his hot pink fringe out of the way of his crinkling eyes which practically sparkled with devilish delight, “Hello, my name is Lee Byunghun. But, you can call me, L.Joe. Our nicknames match so well I still can’t help but laugh.” And he did. “What do you think about that striking similarity, Joey?”

You merely lay silent, the way your nickname rolled off of his tongue sounding so slick the noise slithered past your eardrums and caused an involuntary shiver to run down your spine. He tsked in response, leaning down further to grab ahold of your hand which palmed at the ground, attempting to aid you in the task of standing back up again. The world still danced in its frame, conducting the Macarena as he grabbed your hand and lifted you up forcefully. His kindness was short-lived, however, as soon after, his other hand slipped under your range of view and impacted against your gut, the urge to throw up then and there leaving you teetering on the brink of unconsciousness.

“You see,” he dropped you, causing you to fall like a limp doll onto the ground for the second time, “I don’t like beating up girls, certainly not ones that seem to understand me so well, but an order’s an order. So, why don’t you tell me where the necklace is and we can stop this before it even begins?”

You shook your head, or at least, you tried to, your mind waking your body up from its momentary coma at the words, “necklace.” The first question that crossed your mind was, why? Why was he even mentioning it? The second one was, how did he know you had it? Or, at least, that you used to have it? The third one was, what was going on? What was this all about? The necklace? For the second time, you were being threatened under the pretenses of a useless piece of jewelry?

Useless in that the werewolves you called friends had no need for it. Useless in that they never even mentioned it again after they gave it to you. Useless in that it should have no use. It should have no worth. It should be the last thing this Lee Byunghun wanted from you.

And yet, here he was, asking for it.

With a gun holstered to his belt. With words he had no trouble acting out. With a smile, the eeriest expression he could have shown right at this very moment. And, surely, he knew this.

Surely, he didn’t know as much about the silver trinket he now asked you for as you did.

And so began a series of your own slick, slithering words.

“I don’t know.” You said with a shrug, dragging yourself over to a nearby tree trunk in order to regain your bearings.

“You don’t know,” he squatted down in front of you as you laid your back against the warm bark, matching his eye level with your own, that gun on his hip looking heavier and heavier by the second, “Or you don’t want to tell me?”

“I don’t have it.” You admitted impassively.

He quirked a single brow, “That’s not what I’ve heard.”

“What’ve you heard?” You posed to him, coughing right after, but not soon enough to catch the glare he was giving you as he scrutinized your entire being, “I’m just asking. Maybe you need to check your sources more than just once next time.”

It was just a guess. A blind shot with a loaded pistol. You could bull him from here to France. Twisting the truth was never a difficult task to undertake – you’ve done it more than enough up until this point to consider yourself aptly skilled at it. But, there was a limit to how many blind shots you could make without missing.

But, in this case, you were right.

And he was right about you knowing him so well.

He scoffed, falling for your words, ceasing control of the conversation over to you without even realizing it, “But if you don’t have it, who does?”

Averting your eyes, not allowing him to read whatever emotion flashed across your irises as you answered, you replied with an empty, “I honestly don’t know.”

And when you did, you caught sight of something. A lone, broken branch laid a ways away upon the ground at the foot of the tree you now propped yourself against, most likely the remnants of a fight which happened here moments ago – whose outcome you would learn in the future to be the defeat of Jiyeon at the hands of more than just a handful of silver. The branch itself, thick, blunt, appearing to not give much resistant should you attempt to pick it up, offered you a way out of the situation that your words could only prolong.

Half-truths would only serve you up until the point where this L.Joe character lost his patience; something he surely didn’t have nearly enough of, judging by his looks alone.

Twisted truths, by Hakyeon’s definition, that can only be considered lies.

And yet, that’s all you had. In the face of death, all you had were your wits and your lies. All you could do was cheat. You could only worm your way out of this situation. You could only struggle with bated breath and anxious beads of sweat gathering along your hairline. Through the past, the present, and the future, Life simply had it written in her fates that you would suffer for the right to live. That the only release would be your inevitable inability to escape death for the umpteenth time.

When no virtuous kindness sprouted from the heart of your attacker. When no one was there to save your hide just before it was skinned from your back. When words were followed through with in the end.

And yet, all you could think right now was: that.

You’d be a worm. You’d struggle. You’d slip through the cracks. You’d survive because you would fight to do so, no matter the consequences.

“Why are you so damn pretty, huh?” L.Joe suddenly questioned, the fist he had clenched when you weren’t looking in response to your evasive answers loosening as he leaned forward even more, seemingly committing every otherworldly curve and edge to memory, “It’s almost inhuman, you know that?”

Everything he was saying was going in one ear and out the other. All you could focus on was keeping your mouth running and the feeling of your fingertips skimming past the edge of that wooden stick. Just mere centimeters away. Just a hair’s breadth more and you’d have it in your grasp.

Just as you had him dancing across the expanse of your palm, tossing him a nonchalant glance as you let out an indirect insult he was not too blind to notice, “Ponder the answer as long as you like. It looks like you have all the time in the world if you have the time to keep asking me the same question over and over again, after all.”

He tilted his head, as though entertaining the idea, before his expression darkened, and the ballerina broke from the confines of its music box, “As a matter of fact, I don’t. So, let me ask you one more time.” His warm breath burned your skin when he spoke, slick and eerily, “Where’s the ing, premium grade, Wolfsbane-filled necklace?” One of his hands reached back, grazing the leather of his gun’s holster as he eyed you, irises so steady their hollowness almost stunned you motionless with fear, almost, “Or, would you like to ponder it as I plant a series of bullets into your leg? Right or left, it’s your choice in the end, Joey.”

And then he looked away, down to your jeaned covered thigh, for just a moment.

A moment that provided as good a time as any, the sound of wood ripping through wind coming so suddenly, so abruptly, he didn’t realize what was being hurled towards him until it struck him across the left side of his face. Drawing blood as woodchips scraped against skin. Knocking him on the ground, a position he deserved for both his present indiscretions and his past. As he writhed on the ground, looking just as bad as you were sure you did when he had done almost the same, exact thing to you, you managed to move to a stand.

His fingers reached for his gun, pulling it slowly from his side as he used both hands to get back on his feet, something you weren’t going to allow as you paid him back for the second hit he gave you, delivering one of your own as you rose the branch high, sending it slamming down on his hand and effectively knocking the gun away, before curving it upwards and socking him across the jaw.

You dropped the branch as he lay face down, motionless, wetting your throat before snarling out a vengeful, “Ponder that.”

Then, as the adrenaline slowly left your body, as you felt the anger and the desire to survive slip through your very fingers, your next realization hit you like a bullet train.

You stared down at his unmoving figure, breathing heavily, heart running a mile a minute, your fingers heavy as though they still carried within them the blunt stick you had tossed to your side only seconds ago. The silence threatened to engulf you whole, the fear and sense of urgency he had instilled in you ran down your spine in weakening trills, the adrenaline which pushed you forward before slowly leaving you. And yet, despite death’s clutches loosing its grip on you, despite how relieved you should have felt in that moment that you won over him, that you survived to live another day, another minute, another, single, brief second, you fell to your knees and scrambled over him.

A new emotion surged through you: guilt.

And you could hear your voice yelling the same thing over and over inside of your head as you flipped his body over quickly, holding your hand to his neck, desperately searching for any small sign of life. No, he couldn’t be dead. No, you couldn’t have killed him. No, this couldn’t be happening.

Guilt.

Overwhelming. Overbearing. Overall, nothing could have prepared you for this.

You had trained and practiced and yet, when it came to actually doing it, when it came to ending the life of another living, breathing person, you lost your nerve. You panicked, cursing the neon pink haired boy below you for not leaving you alone. For putting you into this situation. For dragging you further down with him, what the werewolves had to face each and every day of their lives only hitting you at this very moment. Not when Jaehyo was stabbed. Not when Tablo was shot. Only when you had been the one to put someone at the mercy of it did you finally grasp the meaning of it.

Death.

Today, the same day in which just this morning everyone was smiling and engaging in small talk. Laughing as though all were right in the world, they did so with the knowledge that they’d be staring Death down the barrels of his gun. That they may not live to see tomorrow. That this could be the last day of their lives.

And for what?

For what reason did they have to fight for a right to survive?

Because hunters would stop at nothing to rip that right away from them? For what reason? Why?

Why did it seem as though your world would have fallen to pieces had you not felt just then, beneath your fore and middle fingers, the heartbeat of the boy who wouldn’t have felt the same sorrow had he not felt yours? He was alive, and yet he wouldn’t have shed a single tear had you not been yourself.

It didn’t make sense.

It didn’t make sense that you began to cry right then and there, reaching down to pull his hand up and hold it tightly to your forehead in your own. It didn’t make sense how everyone else seemed to deal with it so easily. It simply didn’t make sense at all that B-bomb had come back to find you then, understanding the situation immediately — because he shouldn’t have had to.

“Hyunjoo,” he called to you, leaning down to wrap his arms beneath yours, pulling you away from L.Joe’s unconscious body. You didn’t protest in the least as he spun you around, taking a seat on the ground right in front of you and trapping you within the confines of his legs sprawled on either side of yours. You could only stare blankly on into his ever-calm eyes that held in them what you found to be misplaced sympathy, a sigh being produced from his mouth before he mumbled the words, “Come here.”

You leaned forward without a second thought, giving into his comfort, allowing him to pull you into his embrace, his right hand tracing circles on the expanse of your back while the other pulled you even closer, forcing your own hands to fall to either side of his waist, clutching tightly onto the hem of his jacket. You didn’t say a single word, not knowing how to even begin to articulate everything you felt at the current point in time. Your mind was a flurry with questions and words of apologies and declarations of comfort you wished to give him for everything he’s been through, but you couldn’t manage it.

It was a brief moment of weakness that he had been there to witness for the umpteenth time.

How did he always manage it? Why did coincidence place him there whenever you needed him? What possessed him to say the words he did then, words he had been holding back for so long, all for the sake of soothing you?

The answer to all of which was: he always was and always would be a gentle man.

“Do you know what I’ve always loved about you, Hyunjoo?” He began, breathing out as a smile you couldn’t see adorned his face, “You put so much thought into everything you do, whether it be impulsive or not, and yet, you have this unbelievable knack for taking everything in stride. No matter the circumstance. No matter how much you cry in hidden places where we can’t see you. Despite overthinking everything, seeking out answers to everything, and caring so much about everything, too much, quite honestly, you’re able to get right back on your feet again. You make us say, ‘Wow, how great would it be if I could be like that too?’ And without even trying to, you changed us. We’ve learned to adapt to our situation now, no matter how difficult or impossible it seems to surmount. Because if Hyunjoo can do it so amazingly, I want to be able to do it too.”

You shifted your head just slightly, meeting his eyes once more.

In them lay boundless adoration and indefinite trust. Hiding nothing. Facing everything. And you couldn’t help but ask yourself, but think to yourself at that very moment, why he admired you. Why, when he was the one who deserved admiration and so much more? Whose words sought the latter, something you wanted to give to him completely. Something that couldn’t be granted with as much ease as you wanted it to be.

Perhaps he knew that. Perhaps whatever facial expression you were wearing told him that. Perhaps, or perhaps he had known your thoughts and feelings all along – he being, notably, the best at being able to read the walking billboard, no matter how much the rain obscured its words or blotted out its overall message.

“Buck up.” He nudged his chin upwards, showing you a smile you could spend the rest of your life looking at without even once growing tired of it, “We still have a job to do.”

Pure wonderment danced across your eyes as you stared on at him, “How are you so optimistic?”

He shrugged his shoulders just once, his smile turning into a playful grin, “You rubbed off on me.”

Choosing action over words, you enveloped him in your arms completely, giving him the bear hug of a lifetime. Burying yourself into him, you wished and hoped and prayed on the starry sky above you that you had the strength to protect him from it all, from whatever threatened him, whenever and however, whether it be now or some time far into the future. Unfortunately, you didn’t get a chance to look up and see if a falling star had happened to be passing by, the thick brush of green summer leaves blocking your view. And yet, even though you didn’t see it, a small part of you didn’t want to.

A small part of you was too scared you’d no longer have the strength to fight on, to keep moving forward, to be stubborn and straightforward, if you didn’t catch sight of that fleeting shooting star.

A fear that was driven out from the forefront of your mind as B-bomb pulled back then, laughing as he caught sight of the face you were making, “You’ll make me want to kiss you if you keep looking at me like that.”

You cringed in order to make your facial features look ridiculous; joking with him, being yourself with him, as you always did and always would. Such jesting had the same effect it always had on him, as no matter how hideous the expressions you made were, he could find them nothing short of adorable.

“I’ll hit you if you do.” You threatened emptily, to which he quirked a mischievous brow.

“Will you now?”

You nodded, “Like this,” and landed a hard thump onto his back with your clenched fist that unraveled right after, fingertips gripping into the fabric of his clothes. You hit him again with your other hand, a quick pat to his cheek after snaking your hand to his front.

“What was that for?” He asked.

“To remind you again, as you said earlier, we have to be getting back to reality.”

He shook his head, a frown painted across his face, “Reality though.”

“Is that whining I hear coming from the good-natured, virtuous Minhyuk? For shame.”

“Oh,” he rolled his eyes, knocking his forehead against yours as he murmured in a tone that failed to convey the harshness of his words, that dulled them reflexively when in your presence, “Shut up.”

At the sound of his voice drawling out these two syllables, the pink-haired hunter whose nickname resembled your own began to stir, a low mumble leaving his lips as his hands moved slightly over the blades of grass near his face. B-bomb looked over your shoulder, sending a joking, “You too,” his way, to which you gave him another light tap upon his cheekbones which were sailing so high they seemed to ascend into the sky above.

As the two of you got up, leaning L.Joe by a nearby tree to keep him sitting upwards and prevent him from suffocating in Nature’s bed, not minding the dirt and the grass that had stuck itself to your clothes, before running off towards P.O, Sungjong, and Sungyeol – the three who had yet to hear the message you had to deliver – you snuck in one, last sentence of, “Thank you, Minhyuk.”

And with a smile, he said, “Anytime.”

The odds were anything but in their favor. Surrounded on all sides with no means of escape and not a word of good news from the others being transferred to them, the future was beginning to look bleak for the three young werewolves. However, paired up in order to fill in the gaps of each other’s weaknesses, they wouldn’t go down without a fight.

“Jong!” P.O yelled loudly, his deep voice echoing through the forest like a rumbling volcano ready and poised to erupt, only able to utter the second syllable of the name of who he called for then. Then, as he was pushed into a corner, his back brushing against the rough bark of a tree trunk, by two agile hunters whose tenacity and adeptness with knives could be akin to the Jaehyo of just last fall. Two Jaehyos, at that. And while he could handle one, fighting off two after thirty or so minutes of nonstop ducking and weaving – something he wasn’t skilled at in the least – caused him to become desperate and call out for help from the wolf he saw taking down all the Jaehyo clones one by one through his bloodstained eye; a cut upon his eyelid he incurred minutes before failing to heal as it usually should.

Which meant one thing.

Wolfsbane.

He himself wrenched in pain whenever he heard the high-pitched snarl Sungjong would give after biting into one of their enemy hunter’s arms or legs. The herb was flowing through the enemy hunters’ bloodstream in such high dosages the smell of bitter blood caused P.O to gag as he choked back another yell of the young wolf’s name in order to get his attention, “Sungjong!”

P.O didn’t want to put him through the misery of ingesting more Wolfsbane, of causing his already bleeding mouth, his melting gums, his burning tongue, to endure more of the awful substance he couldn’t even begin to imagine how he managed to keep down in the past, but what else could he do? Who else could he call for when Sungyeol had his own hands full with the scour of hunters who had taken to the trees as he had with the intent to shoot him down? What other option was there now?

Now, as he failed to move out of the way of the quick hand that went slashing towards him. As a knife went carving its initials into his stomach just then, causing him to buckle to his knees. His lungs stalled, his heart was deafly still in his chest, and for a moment, he thought it was over.

He was born like a dog, he had lived a mutt’s life, and now he’d die a stray’s death. Forgotten along with the distant yells that sounded like mere whispers fading away into the wind. He hadn’t come to expect anything more from his humble beginnings and his even humbler present reality. And yet, he numbly stood his ground, pushing back at his attackers.

Pure instinct drove him on.

He hadn’t come to expect anything more than to die young.

To never live to meet the parents who abandoned him. To never live to see Zico earn all the respect and admiration he deserved from many more wolves like Sunggyu and his pack. To never live to see himself become someone’s father someday, when he’d be there so often he’d be labeled “annoying.” To never live to be with Jiyeon again.

He hadn’t expected any of these hopes and dreams to become reality.

And yet, he couldn’t give it all up.

The very notion of his future, a future where his hair would gray and his teeth would fall out not from Wolfsbane overdose but because he was slowly reaching the end of his long life, a future with his pack and Sunggyu’s when all of the fighting finally ended and high school graduation celebrations turned into wedding ceremonies, a future in which Jiyeon would be with him forever because she wouldn’t dare let him get away from her so easily, wasn’t something he could simply give up.

Thus, on the brink of death, he stood tall, taking a knife to his knee that attempted to fell him to no avail. The two hunters backed away from him, reconsidering their strategy in the face of his eyes which were so black the whites on either side appeared nonexistent. His teeth protruded from his mouth as an audible crack rang through the air, the act of his bones popping into place.

He was transforming.

Delirious, in a state of borderline unconsciousness, he was shifting into his wolf form. A dangerous act to perform considering his mental and physical condition, yet one he endeavored for nevertheless. And if he succeeded, the result would be a rampage that Zico would not be there to take control of. The golden rule of the day would be stained. Large handfuls of lives would meet their ends at the end of his fangs. His desperate will to survive against the odds no matter the consequences he would have to face when fur became flesh and memory upon memory of bloodshed, of those precious seconds everyone experiences as they draw their last breath, and the haunting sounds of that which he survived at the expense of another’s survival would be too brash and destructive to stop should he be allowed to transform right then and there.

He was the youngest werewolf of impure upbringings in their pack.

His actions would be labeled as foolhardy yet dismissible because of this fact.

He would have to live with the guilt of his present rage with the unwanted comfort of others telling him it wasn’t his fault. That, at the end of the day, he couldn’t control himself. It’s in his nature. He’s simply young. He’s too young.

Predicting this, knowing this, refusing to bear witness to this, she stepped in as soon as she arrived on the scene.

Dropping down from the tree line like a bomb sent crashing upon the ground, she landed right behind P.O’s hunched over figure. With a quick kick to his knees and a subsequent slam of his temple against the tree trunk he was cornered against moments before, she took P.O down.

He fell limp at her feet, completely knocked unconscious.

It was no surprise to her to be immediately tackled by a bloodied torpedo of matted, dirty fur. Sungjong, finally able to answer P.O’s call for aid only to discover him lying at the feet of a short woman with wavy locks of chestnut brown, didn’t take to her kindly. However, it was certainly a surprise to Sungjong that he was thrown aside not soon after he succeeded in pinning her to the forest floor. In his daze as he picked himself up, it took him a moment to register what it was that stood before him.

There was no woman.

Instead, there was a chestnut brown furred wolf with honey golden eyes that pierced into his with somber sympathy.

A female werewolf.

And as she went bounding past him, sharp canines ripping into the arm of the one of the hunters previously surrounding P.O, Sungjong didn’t need any more evidence to convince him she was there to help them.

To rescue them. To save them. All of them.

Because they were too young to face death alone as it stared each one of them down the eye of a double barrel shotgun.

Or rather, to conquer death and win.

Such a task called for more than just fifteen werewolves and a young girl.

Much more.