A Wolf at the Door

Charlie's apartment sat four floors up in a building that pretended it wasn't constantly on the brink of collapse. The exterior brickwork had the permanent expression of someone exhausted by taxes and gravity. The hallway lights flickered with the enthusiasm of dying stars. The radiator hissed like a territorial snake.

But it was home. And it was safe—mostly because the building was old enough to have thick walls and tenants disinterested enough not to ask questions about weird noises.

Charlie pushed open the fire escape window and slipped inside her living room. It was cluttered but lived-in: stacks of books leaned dangerously against one another, blankets in various states of softness draped across the couch, and a coffee mug army occupying every flat surface.

Rowan climbed in behind her, awkward and unsure, like someone trying to pretend they were still human when something inside them had learned to walk on four paws instead of two.

He stood dripping on the hardwood floor, looking profoundly apologetic about it.

Charlie sighed. "You can breathe, you know."

He exhaled shakily.

"Right," he murmured. "Sorry. I don't really know how to... be right now."

"You're doing great. You haven't screamed or broken anything valuable."

She glanced toward the bookshelf with several items that were not valuable. "...Well. Anything I care about."

The faintest smile tugged at his mouth. Then it vanished. His gaze drifted to his hands—shaking hands, half-curled, as if expecting claws that weren't quite there.

He looked up at her. "Is this... normal?"

"For a first shift? Pretty normal."

She stepped closer, assessing his posture, his breathing, the tension running through his shoulders. "You've got sensory overload, adrenaline, probably a migraine, and the wolf part of your brain is trying to reorganize your instincts like a teenage boy reorganizing a playlist. It's a lot."

"Feels like too much."

"It's not. You won't break."

He swallowed. "How do you know?"

"Because I didn't."

Rowan blinked at her, startled. Charlie realized she'd said more than she meant to. She didn't usually talk about her own first shift. Or any shift. Or anything remotely vulnerable.

Time to pivot.

"Sit," she ordered.

He sat obediently on the couch. Charlie tossed him a towel from the pile on her chair. Rowan looked at it like it was a set of instructions written in a foreign language, then slowly started drying his hair.

Charlie studied him—openly now.

Something was wrong.

A normal new wolf smelled... new. Raw. Scared. Their scents were muddy, confused, full of chemical panic and too-fast hormones.

Rowan smelled like a storm trapped in a cage.

Power crackled under his skin. The wolf inside him paced. She couldn't hear its thoughts—not exactly—but she could feel its agitation. It was awake in a way new wolves weren't supposed to be.

Rowan looked up abruptly, eyes flickering gold.

She pretended she hadn't noticed.

"So," she said, leaning against her desk. "Let's start simple. What's your name?"

"Rowan."

"Last name?"

He hesitated. "I... I don't know."

Charlie's brow arched. "You don't know your last name?"

"I know things about myself. Basic things. I know I'm twenty-four. I know I'm from someplace colder than here. I know I don't like sweet coffee." His jaw tensed. "But I don't remember my last name. Or my address. Or family. Or—"

He cut himself off as his breathing started to accelerate.

Charlie interjected quickly. "Okay. Hey. Hey. Stop. Look at me."

He did.

"Memory loss can happen with traumatic triggers," she lied. "You're not the first."

He didn't know she wasn't telling him the whole truth: wolves didn't forget everything. Trauma scrambled details, but the sense of self—pack ties, family, identity—usually remained.

Rowan was missing more than memories. Something had carved pieces out of him.

He swallowed. "I'm sorry. I'm trying."

"You're doing fine," she said again, softer this time. "And you don't have to apologize."

The room fell quiet.

Charlie ran a hand through her hair, thinking. Rowan watched her like she was some anchor point in a world rapidly dissolving around him.

"We'll figure this out," she said. "But first, answer one question. The most important one."

Rowan tensed. "Okay."

She pointed at a cardboard box overflowing with takeout menus. "Do you want noodles, dumplings, or something involving three different kinds of melted cheese?"

Rowan blinked at her. "Wh—what?"

"You just transformed for the first time. Your body is burning calories like a furnace. You need food."

He stared at her, bewildered.

A slow, reluctant laugh escaped him—one that cracked through the fog of fear surrounding him.

Charlie allowed a small smile. "There we go. That's better."

"Dumplings," he said, still dazed.

"Excellent choice."

She grabbed her phone, ordered enough food to feed a middleweight boxing champion, and tossed it onto the counter. Rowan sank deeper into the couch cushions, exhausted but calmer.

Charlie pulled a blanket from a chair and draped it over his shoulders. He twitched at the contact, then relaxed.

"Thank you," he murmured.

"Don't get sentimental," she said lightly. "I just don't want you bleeding on my upholstery. It has enough trauma."

He snorted. "You're... not what I expected a werewolf to be."

"What did you expect?"

He hesitated, brow furrowing. "I don't know. Something meaner. Bigger. More..." He gestured vaguely at her. "Taller."

"I am terrifyingly tall on the inside."

He smiled—small but real.

Charlie turned away quickly before her face could betray anything.

She grabbed a notebook from her desk and flipped it open. "Okay. Food's coming. In the meantime... tell me everything you remember from tonight."

Rowan nodded slowly.

"I woke up," he said. "In the forest."

Charlie stilled.

"You woke up there?" she said sharply. "Not shifted? Not running? Just... woke up?"

"Yes."

His jaw worked. "I was lying on the ground. It was dark. My hands were shaking. My head felt like—like static. Then I heard something. An animal, I think. And then—" He swallowed again. "I wasn't me anymore."

Charlie's spine prickled.

Awakening in wolf form wasn't unheard of. But awakening as if dropped there? With no signs of running or panic or instinctive escape?

That was wrong.

She leaned forward. "Do you remember anything before waking up?"

Rowan seemed to fold inward. His eyes unfocused, searching some internal landscape. His breath trembled.

"Flashes," he whispered. "A room. A cold floor. Metal restraints. Voices."

Charlie froze.

"Voices?" she echoed.

He nodded faintly. "A woman saying something about control. A man saying something about bloodlines. Then... then something burning." He winced, clutching his head. "And then nothing."

Charlie stared.

Her stomach dropped.

This wasn't a normal transformation. This wasn't an accident. This was manufactured.

Before she could speak, Rowan looked up suddenly—and his reflection in the dark TV screen behind him did not move with him.

Charlie swallowed hard.

Rowan's reflection lingered a heartbeat too long before slowly matching his posture, as if something inside the glass moved on its own.

Charlie's wolf surged forward, alert and bristling.

She forced her voice to stay steady. "Okay," she said quietly. "We're going to take this one step at a time."

Rowan followed her gaze. Saw the reflection. Went pale.

"Charlie... what's happening to me?"

She approached him slowly, deliberately, projecting calm she didn't fully feel.

"I don't know yet," she said, kneeling in front of him. "But whatever it is? You're not alone in it. I swear that to you."

He stared at her with eyes full of fear and something else—trust.

"I don't think I'm normal," he whispered.

Charlie gave a humorless smile. "Normal is overrated."

He huffed a shaky laugh. Then, after a moment: "Are you sure you should be helping me?"

"No," she said. "But I'm doing it anyway."

"Why?"

Her answer rose before she could stop it.

"Because someone should have helped me."

Rowan's face softened—not with pity, but with understanding.

Charlie swallowed and stood, needing distance. Needing perspective.

"I'll teach you how to control the wolf," she said briskly. "We'll work on memory next. And after that... we'll figure out who did this to you."

Rowan went still. "You believe someone did?"

"Oh, absolutely," Charlie said. "Everything about you screams 'highly illegal supernatural nonsense.'"

A pause.

"...Is that an official term?" Rowan asked.

"It is now."

The door buzzer rang, making both of them jump.

"Food's here," Charlie muttered. "Try not to look haunted when I open the door. Humans get twitchy."

Rowan nodded, pulling the blanket tighter. Charlie grabbed her wallet and headed for the hallway.

But before she reached the door, she felt it—soft as a whisper, sharp as a blade.

A presence.

Outside.

Watching the building.

Charlie's heartbeat slowed. Her vision sharpened. Wolves didn't get spooked. They got ready.

She opened the door with a forced casualness, grabbed the food from the delivery driver, thanked them, shut the door—

And locked all three bolts.

Rowan frowned. "Something wrong?"

"Not yet," she said.

But her wolf disagreed.

Something had followed them from the forest.

Something patient.

Something old.

Charlie set the food on the table and turned off the main lights.

Just in case.