The Wolf Beneath the Neon Lights

  The city never slept, but it did have moments when it held its breath. Nights when the fog came early and thick, swallowing streetlamps whole and dulling the roar of traffic to a distant, underwater hum. Nights when the pavement glistened with recent rain and the buildings stood like silhouettes of forgotten giants. Nights when something old—something tooth-and-shadowed—stirred behind glass and steel.

  Charlie had always liked these nights best.

  They felt honest. No one bothered pretending the city was safe when the fog rolled in. The shadows lengthened, colors bled into each other, and every darkened alley whispered a story.

  Charlie walked through it as if she belonged in every shadow.

  Her boots made soft sounds on wet asphalt, and she tugged her jacket tighter against the cold. The wind tasted like rain, dirt, and electricity—sharp enough that her senses pricked with awareness. Even in human form, her instincts swayed and murmured like a restless tide beneath her skin.

  A wolf was a patient thing, but it was never asleep.

  She slipped her hands into her pockets as she crossed the quiet street leading out of downtown. Behind her, neon signs flickered through the fog—Open 24 Hours, Psychic Readings, Best Dumplings in the City. Ahead, the glow faded into darkness. A single streetlight buzzed above a cracked bike path, and beyond that: the forest.

  A black smudge at the city's edge, older than all its buildings, stubborn as bone.

  Most nights, Charlie shifted in her apartment or the warehouse she rented near the docks. But tonight something tugged at her—an instinctual itch beneath her ribs. A direction. A pull.

  The forest.

  Which was strange.

  She wasn't the type to romanticize nature; trees were pretty but inconvenient, and once a squirrel had attempted to fight her. But instincts weren't rational, and wolves didn't do subtlety. Whatever called to her tonight wasn't dangerous... but it was urgent.

  She stopped under the last streetlight and glanced back. A lone car hissed by through the fog, fading into white nothing. Beyond that, silence.

  Charlie exhaled and stepped into the dark.

  The shift vibrated faintly through her bones—almost wanted to begin, but not quite. She could feel every root beneath the soil, every heartbeat of the forest, every hidden scent the mist carried.

  Something was here.

  Something new.

  Charlie didn't like new things. New things tended to bleed.

  She paused at the treeline, letting her vision adjust. The damp earth smelled like moss, cold stone, and—

  Her head snapped to the left.

  A scent hit her senses sharply enough to startle her. Not prey. Not human. Not any wolf she knew.

  Warm iron. Storm-bitten air. A spark of something feral and unsteady.

  Werewolf... but wrong.

  Her heart quickened. Not fear—wolves didn't fear wolves. Instinct. Anticipation.

  Curiosity.

  Charlie took a slow step deeper into the trees. "Okay," she muttered to herself. "If you're a serial killer, I need you to know I'm already having a weird week, so you're gonna have to get in line."

  Branches rustled in a gustless patch of air. The forest held its breath too.

  Charleie kept walking.

  Her fingers brushed the small silver charm at her wrist—half habit, half superstition. A crescent moon etched in obsidian, given to her years ago by someone she no longer spoke to.

  She hated how comforted she felt by its weight.

  A twig snapped to her right.

  Charlie turned calmly toward the sound, tilting her head like she was listening past the edge of human hearing—which, in fairness, she was. Her voice slipped lower, picking up a faint growl buried beneath it.

  "If you're trying to scare me," she said, "you're late by about ten years."

  Silence.

  Then—soft footsteps, uneven, approaching.

  Charlie squared her stance.

  Fog shifted.

  And a figure stepped out.

  A man, though the word felt insufficient. Early twenties. Tall, lean, built like someone who didn't quite belong in his own skin. Rain plastered dark hair to his forehead. His clothes were torn and muddied, sleeves ragged as if clawed. His eyes—his eyes were wrong. Gold shimmered beneath the human brown, pulsing faintly like embers under ash.

  He looked at her with a mixture of confusion, dread, and awe. The kind of look newly changed wolves sometimes gave experienced ones.

  But he smelled wrong. His scent was unstable, like lightning trapped in a bottle.

  Charlie felt her wolf bristle.

  He took a shaky step forward. "What... am I?"

  Charlie stared.

  Well. That was fast.

  Usually she had at least ten minutes before new wolves started with the existential questions. Sometimes they fainted first. Once someone tried to sell her cryptocurrency.

  But this—this was different.

  She softened her stance but stayed alert. "You're a werewolf," she said gently. "Congratulations. Welcome to the club. Membership includes better senses and worse laundry bills."

  He blinked at her like the word hurt. "I—this can't be real."

  "It can, and it is. Trust me, denial only works until you accidentally sniff someone's mood."

  He swallowed hard. "I think—" His breath hitched. "I think I hurt something."

  Charlie raised a brow. "A person?"

  He pointed at the ground.

  Charlie followed his gesture.

  A sapling lay uprooted several feet away, ripped clean from the soil.

  She clicked her tongue. "Wow. That tree never saw it coming."

  His expression cracked. "I didn't mean—"

  "I know," she said softly. "Come on. You're not dangerous. Just confused. We'll figure this out."

  He hesitated, trembling faintly—not with fear, but with energy his body didn't know how to hold. She extended her hand.

  After a beat, he took it.

  Heat sparked instantly between them—a warm-clawing, instinct-binding sensation that shot straight up her arm. Charley flinched—not visibly, but her wolf perked with sudden, unwelcome interest.

  Great.

  This trope.

  She didn't let go.

  "Come on," she said. "Let's get you somewhere safer before you destroy city property and get us both on a government watchlist."

  He nodded, stunned and silent, and allowed her to guide him out of the forest and back toward the flickering lights of the city.

  Charlie didn't look back.

  But if she had, she would've seen the shadows behind them ripple—just slightly—like something else had been watching.

  And following.