It's 2028, and you don't leave your house at night without checking the moon phase on your phone. Werewolves aren't some campfire story—they're real, and they've been screwing up the world since King Lycaon got himself cursed way back when people still believed in gods with bad tempers. Story goes, Lycaon pissed off Zeus, got turned into a wolf-man, and kicked off a nightmare that's still going. He's dead now, torn to shreds by his own pack, if you believe the old texts. His youngest son, Erymanthus, wasn't so lucky. He survived, kept the curse alive, and built a legacy that's got every werewolf pack bowing to his shadow. Nobody's seen him in forever, but they call him the Shadow King, and his name still makes people flinch.
The world's had to deal. Cities have curfews, steel shutters, and streetlights laced with silver that hum when the moon's full. Small towns? They're basically abandoned after dark. Werewolves don't just kill—they run shit. They've got a system, a hierarchy that keeps their packs tight. My dad used to explain it to me when I was a kid, back when he thought I'd eat up his stories like they were comic books.
"Jack," he'd say, sitting at the kitchen table with a beer, "werewolves rank themselves from Level 0 to 10. Level 0's a fresh-turned mutt, all claws and no brains. Level 1 or 2, they're trouble, but you might outrun 'em if you're fast and don't trip. Level 3? That's a fucking disaster. One of those can wipe out a neighborhood in a night. Anything above that, you're screwed."
Higher levels are worse. Level 5s are pack alphas, smart enough to plan and mean enough to follow through. Level 7s are rare, the kind of monsters that can outthink you and rip your spine out before you blink. Level 10s? Nobody talks about them. They're like ghost stories, except the ghost might actually eat you. Erymanthus was the only confirmed Level 10, and most people think he's dead. Most people.
Humans had to get their act together too. The Hunters' Guild ranks its fighters with this weird flower system—don't ask me why flowers, probably some old tradition nobody bothered to change. Dandelion's the lowest, for rookies who can't hold a silver blade without pissing themselves. Then it's Daisy, Iris, Lily, all the way up to Rose. Rose-level hunters are the real deal, the ones who can go toe-to-toe with a Level 3 werewolf and maybe live to tell about it. There are only 1,760 hunters in the whole damn world, out of millions who've tried. It's not just about being tough—it's about being something else, something most people aren't.
Tomorrow's when I find out if I've got that something. I'm Jack Carter, seventeen, standing in the cracked asphalt parking lot of Westview High with my two best friends, Marcus and Daniel. The air's cold, smells like burnt leaves and cheap vape juice from the kids who sneak out here to smoke. We're all pretending we're not freaking out about the Natural Calling, this mandatory test for every kid turning eighteen. It's a full-body-and-mind scan—strength, speed, smarts, instincts, the works. It spits out your place in the world: Worker, Specialist, Nobody, or Hunter. Workers keep society from collapsing—farmers, mechanics, nurses. Specialists are the nerds who build silver-laced weapons or hack werewolf comms. Nobodies are… well, most people. Hunters? That's the golden ticket, the one every kid brags they're gonna get, even though the odds are shit.
Marcus is pacing, his sneakers scraping the pavement. He's Hispanic, all lean muscle and restless energy, fast enough to make track coaches cry. His black hair's sticking up like he's been running his hands through it, and his eyes keep darting to the horizon like a werewolf's gonna pop out of the bushes. "What if I choke, man?" he says, voice low. "Like, what if I trip during the sprint or blank on the problem-solving crap? I can't end up a Nobody, Jack. My mom'd never let me hear the end of it."
"You're not choking," I say, kicking a loose pebble across the lot. "You're too fast. They'll clock you at, what, 4.2 seconds on the forty? That's Specialist at least, maybe even Hunter if you don't overthink it."
He laughs, but it's shaky. He's scared, and I get it. I'm scared too, just better at hiding it. Daniel's the only one who looks like he doesn't give a damn, sprawled on the curb with his massive arms crossed. He's six-foot-four, built like a linebacker who forgot how to stop growing. He's tossing a football up and catching it one-handed, like it's nothing. "They better have a strength test that doesn't suck," he says, voice deep enough to rattle your bones. "Last guy I sparred with whined for a week after I tapped him."
"Tapped him?" I snort. "You sent him to the nurse, Dan."
He grins, all teeth. "Not my fault he's soft."
I'm no slouch either. I'm built solid, not as big as Daniel but broad enough, with quick hands from too many schoolyard fights. I'm a b striker, always have been. I don't plan fights—I just win them. It's instinct, like my brain shuts off and my body knows what to do. Dad used to say it was a gift, that I was born for the Calling. But he's gone now, killed on a supply run two years ago, and I'm not sure I believe in gifts anymore.
The sun's almost down, painting the sky a bruised purple. Somewhere out there, werewolves are stirring, their eyes glinting in the dark. The Calling Center's waiting for us tomorrow, all sterile white walls and humming machines. They'll hook us up to sensors, run us through physical trials, mental puzzles, stress tests. It's not just about being strong or smart—it's about whether you've got that spark, that thing that makes you a Hunter. I want it so bad I can taste it, but wanting doesn't mean shit. The Calling doesn't care about your dreams.
Marcus stops pacing and leans against the fence next to me. "You scared, Jack?" His voice is quiet, like he's afraid to hear the answer.
I shrug, staring at the ground. "Not scared. Just… I dunno. Ready to get it over with."
Daniel chuckles, tossing the football higher. "Bullshit. You're sweating it as much as we are."
I flip him off, but he's not wrong. Tomorrow's not just a test—it's the line between who we are and who we're gonna be. And out there, in the dark, the werewolves are waiting for us to step into their world.