Truck

In the darkness of the cargo compartment, Ethan had meticulously prepared all the necessary items for the ritual. The air was thick with palpable anxiety, as if every passing moment was a relentless test of our resolve. I carefully poured the blood into the chalice, my hands trembling slightly—whether from nerves or exhaustion, I couldn’t tell. The blood shimmered with a mysterious glow under the dim light, casting an ominous prelude to the life-or-death decision that lay ahead.

Ethan stood beside me, his voice low and solemn. “Master, this is the third time we are going to resurrect him. Are you sure we should continue?” His eyes were filled with worry and confusion, clearly troubled by the lingering concerns about the depletion of my werewolf powers. Although this issue weighed heavily on his mind, my own focus remained firmly on the imperative of Neil’s revival.

I looked into Ethan's eyes, sensing his deep concern for me. Despite the heavy weight of anxiety and uncertainty that fil