Third Person.
The night was slick with rain, the road gleaming under the headlights of Brackham's armoured vehicle.
Inside, crates rattled with guns, bullets, and explosives—the precious cargo Brackham had demanded.
In the shadows, Dennis crouched with six men at his back. The faint human scent Meredith had prepared for them clung to their collars, disguising them in the night.
No one would guess they were wolves.
"Remember," Dennis whispered, his voice sharp but steady. "No claws. No blood. Take them down, take the weapons, and vanish."
The truck slowed at the bend, right where they had been waiting. In a flash, the wolves moved, but tonight, they weren't beasts but rather men in the dark.
A guard barely had time to shout before Dennis slammed him into the side of the vehicle, knocking him cold without a mark.
Another was tripped, gagged, and dragged into the ditch, unconscious before he could lift his weapon. Fists, elbows, and precision strikes were silent and efficient.
