The Lycan Hunter

The door creaked open, letting in a sliver of moonlight that sliced through the smoky gloom. A tall figure stepped into the bar, his black leather jacket seeming to swallow the meager light. He moved with the quiet grace of a predator, each step deliberate and measured.

A hush fell over the bar as if someone had thrown a thick blanket over the room. Every head turned, every conversation ceased, as if pulled to the newcomer by an invisible force. The clinking of mugs, the murmur of voices, all faded into the background as the tall man surveyed the scene with a predatory gaze.

His eyes, like chips of ice in the dim light, swept over the room, taking in every detail, the hunched figures, the nervous glances, the weapons laid carelessly on the tables. A faint smile played on his lips, a flicker of amusement in the face of their wary respect.

He moved with the unhurried confidence of a man who knew he commanded the room, even in the den of those who themselves hunted monsters. He stopped a