Chapter 5: The Tight Bandages & The Disguise

The morning light struggled to pierce through the cracked, grime-stained windowpane, casting a pale, weak glow over the cramped room. Angela stared down at the small roll of white medical bandages clutched tightly in her hands. This was her final weapon, the only fragile barrier that could transform her from a defenseless, cornered girl into a disguise so convincing it would either save her life or lead her straight to execution.

She had stripped off all her clothes moments ago, standing shivering and completely exposed in the biting, unheated air of dawn. The cold gnawed relentlessly at her skin, but the internal terror swirling deep within her chest was far more paralyzing. Every inch of her body still felt haunted by the stinging insults, the cruel jeers, and the merciless labels she had endured year after year in this crumbling town. But those voices were about to be left behind. Today, she either survived this desperate gamble, or she would be swallowed whole by the brutal, unforgiving world of werewolves.

"Stay strong, Angela," she whispered to herself, her voice barely a breath, fragile enough that it dissolved into the chilling air before even reaching her own ears.

She lifted the edge of the gauze roll, pressing it firmly against her side, and began winding it tightly across her chest. The very first wrap pulled taut, constricting her lungs and cutting off her breathing rhythm. She gritted her teeth and pulled harder, applying a ruthless, punishing pressure until she heard the faint, unsettling groan of her own ribs grinding under the strain. A sharp, white-hot spike of agony pierced her torso, forcing hot tears to spring to her eyes, but she refused to let out even a whimper. If she could not endure this self-inflicted pain today, the savage enforcers of the Branco Ovest pack would inflict torments far beyond her worst nightmares tomorrow.

Layer upon layer of cotton binding went on, wrapped with merciless precision. She forced all her remaining strength into crushing her natural curves, flattening her chest until it became an uncompromising, rigid plane. She would not stop, could not stop, until every feminine contour was completely erased. When she finally tucked the loose end of the bandage under, her breath came in shallow, rapid hitches. Every single inhalation felt like swallowing glass, sending sharp stabs of pain through her ribs. Sweat beaded densely on her forehead, and her chest felt locked inside an iron vice, transforming even the simple act of breathing into an exhausting battle of endurance.

"You are no longer Angela," she promised her own reflection in the cracked mirror, sealing her fate with a fierce, unwavering vow. "You are Angelo."

The next stage of her complete metamorphosis lay in her wardrobe. She pulled on the coarse, foul-smelling garments she had scavenged days earlier from a rundown thrift store on the outskirts of town—a place where oversized, discarded menswear hung in cheap, dusty rows. She slid her arms into a heavy, dark flannel shirt that was at least two sizes too large for her slight frame. When she buttoned it up, the fabric draped loosely and awkwardly over her narrow shoulders, resembling a shapeless sack. Beneath this clever illusion, her true figure vanished entirely; no one glancing her way could ever guess that a soft, vulnerable girl breathed beneath the heavy wool.

For her lower half, she chose a pair of thick, dark, baggy denim jeans that pooled heavily around her ankles, the frayed hems dragging across the dusty floorboards. She cinched her waist tightly with a worn-out leather belt, pulling the buckle to its absolute limit to flatten any suggestion of feminine hips. And finally, she stepped into the heavy, rugged combat boots she had scraped together every last coin to buy—footwear designed for harsh terrain and punishing labor.

The boots were startlingly heavy. When she lowered her weight onto them, a dull, solid thud echoed through the room. Unlike light sneakers, these boots were built with thick rubber lug soles and reinforced steel toes, intended for tracking through the dense, unforgiving wilderness of the northern mountains. They instantly added an inch or two to her height, but more importantly, they completely transformed her physical presence. Instead of the light, hesitant steps of a timid girl, she now planted her feet with a heavy, deliberate, and undeniably masculine authority.

She recalled the harsh, snip-snip sound of the kitchen scissors as Grazia had crudely sheared off her long, dark hair just hours before. Standing before the mirror, she used her fingers to tousle the short, choppy strands, letting a few rebellious locks fall messily across her forehead. The severe crop sharpened her cheekbones and emphasized her jawline, casting hard shadows that hardened her expression. She stared deep into her own eyes, practicing a cold, impenetrable glare—a look designed to ensure that no one would ever mistake her for the helpless street urchin they once called a gutter rat.

Reaching down, she hoisted her worn-out duffel bag onto her shoulder. Inside rested her few remaining possessions: a comb, a spare shirt, and the exact stack of crumpled bills left over after paying off her mother. The sudden weight of the bag pulled sharply against her taped ribs, sending a fresh wave of pain through her torso, but she hardened her jaw and ignored the protest of her body.

Before turning away for good, she cast one final, lingering look into the glass. The girl named Angela was completely gone. In her place stood a mysterious, defiant stranger who had built an entire identity on a dangerous foundation of lies and sheer willpower. She was heading straight into the heart of Accademia Alpha—a fortress of elite predators where a single slip of the tongue meant certain death.

She forced her lungs to expand as much as the tight bindings would allow, letting out a slow, controlled exhale. Twisting the brass doorknob, she pushed the wooden door open and stepped out into the freezing, shadowed alleyway. The bitter morning wind whipped against her face, but she zipped her oversized jacket up to her chin, shoved her hands deep into her pockets, and tightened her grip on the straps of her bag.

Stepping forward into the biting gloom, she whispered her final mantra to the empty street: "Walk on, Angelo. Not toward your death, but toward the desperate hunt for your own survival."