Chapter 3

Looking back on these past two years, I worked day and night—on call 24 hours a day, without rest. No matter how tired I was, as long as someone needed help, I dragged myself to their side. I was the only healer in this entire pack. There was no one to cover for me, no one to lean on. Everything—every wound stitched, every life saved—depended on me alone.

I never asked for gratitude. I never expected recognition. But I didn't expect this either—that they wouldn't believe a single word I said. That they'd repay me with suspicion, slander, and scorn.

I had to admit it: my two years of dedication here… was nothing more than a cruel joke.

Then, as if to prove the gods had no mercy left for me, an old wolf, trembling and hunched over a cane, approached me. He banged his stick against the door and barked:

"Ignore all that noise. What matters now is me—take my blood pressure, immediately!"

Though every fiber in me screamed to walk away, I knew too well—if I didn't obey, they'd just twist it again, accuse me of neglect, disrespect, and pride.

Swallowing my bitterness, I pulled out my equipment and began the check. After a while, I calmly told him the truth:

"Grandpa, your blood pressure is a bit high. I recommend you take some herbs to stabilize it. At your age, leaving it untreated could be dangerous."

But before I could say more, he slammed his cane to the ground with such force that my wolf flinched instinctively, her fur standing on end.

"You always say my blood pressure's high! I bet you make it high on purpose. It's just a trick to suck money from me! Why would I need herbs? There's nothing wrong with me!"

I stood frozen in place, claws unconsciously digging into my own arms. I leaned against the cold wall behind me, trying to keep my body from collapsing. My heart pounded—not with anger anymore, but a raw, searing ache.

Then another voice—a sharp one from behind me—cut in.

"She's a liar, I tell you. Every time we go to the infirmary, she tells us we're sick with this or that—always pushing infusions, herbs, and if those don't work, she'll even suggest surgery! It's obvious she's taking commission from every treatment!"

I let out a deep breath—only to feel tears streaming uncontrollably down my face.

My voice cracked with sobs as I stared at them, eyes filled with pain.

"Each of you knows how I've treated you… I never took a single penny more than what was fair… Why are you slandering me like this? It hurts so much..."

For a moment, the chaotic noise quieted. They stared at me in silence.

But after just a few seconds, someone sneered:

"So now you feel wronged? What—are we supposed to pity you now?"

None of them reflected on their actions. Instead, they rushed forward like a pack of starved beasts—snatching all the herbs I brought with me.

The old wolf even grabbed the equipment I had just used to check his blood pressure.

"Don't take those! Please—those aren't mine!"

"Stop—don't do this!"

I wiped my tears and tried to shout, mustering what little strength I had left.

But my voice was too hoarse, too weak—drowned beneath their greedy noise.

No one heard me. No one cared.

They only snatched faster.

Then Jessica snapped:

"I'm not paying a damn cent for that so-called treatment!"

Someone else chimed in viciously:

"If her herbs are so expensive, let's just take them as compensation. No way we're letting her scam us so easily!"

"Let's go to the infirmary and take everything. It's free today—don't miss the chance!"

"Exactly! There's so many of us—how could we all be fooled by one young she-wolf?"

And with that, the entire mob turned and charged toward the infirmary like a horde—ready to tear apart everything I had built with my own hands.

I stumbled back to the infirmary, my limbs heavy and weak, and my wolf inside me was trembling from the unbearable fatigue.

All the entrances had been forced open, and everything inside was gone—

every herb from the cabinets, every piece of medical equipment, even the needles and tubing had been looted.

The infirmary had been ransacked down to nothing. The shelves were ripped from the walls, the heavy displays smashed beyond repair.

I stood frozen in the middle of the wreckage, my legs giving way beneath the weight of despair.

Their cold accusations echoed in my ears, and in that moment, something inside me truly died.

I remembered the day I graduated from Werewolf Medical School.

Not a single graduate volunteered to come here. No one ever had.

Everyone knew—this was the Rogue Pack. Poor. Isolated. Uneducated.

The werewolves here were difficult to communicate with, mistrustful and harsh.

But I came.

I came because when I was a child, I dreamed of healing every wolf, no matter their background.

I believed that if I gave them my sincerity, my time, my compassion… I could be the difference.

I believed my efforts would be seen—would be enough.

So I built the infirmary. I set up the blood station.

I gave everything I had—my strength, my blood, my time.

But in the end, this is what it came to.

They destroyed it all. Not just the infirmary, but everything I believed in.

I couldn't do this anymore.

With shaking hands, I picked up the phone and called the dean of my home pack—the one who had tried to bring me back many times before.

My voice was hollow, but firm.

"Dean… I'm ready to return. I'll come back to our pack."