The forest darkened with a swift, predatory finality.
Shadows, long and distorted, stretched like grasping fingers beneath the trees, swallowing the last few pathetic patches of fading sunlight. The sky beyond the tangled canopy burned a brief, defiant orange before surrendering to a deep, bruised purple, and then the absolute black of true night began its inexorable crawl. The air grew teeth, the cold biting deep, heavy with a dampness that seeped through his jacket and into his bones. Each exhale from Ethan's lips plumed in a thin, ghostly wisp, a transient marker of his fragile life in the immense, ancient silence. Each one vanished too quickly, as if the forest were erasing the evidence of his presence.
He had no fire. The thought was a cold stone in his gut. No spark, no warmth, no beacon of safety in the consuming dark. He had no food. His stomach was a hollow, aching pit, a reminder of a body that would soon turn on itself without fuel. He had no shelter. He was exposed, a soft, pink thing against the hard, uncaring world. A snack wrapped in denim and cotton.
And something was out there. The knowledge was a live wire in his brain, sizzling with primal terror.
The howl still rang in the vault of his skull, a sound that seemed to have bypassed his ears and vibrated directly through his skeleton. It hadn't been a simple animal call; it had rolled across the forest like a physical wave, a low-frequency tremor so deep it felt like it could shake the stars from the sky. It hadn't been immediately on top of him—a small, pathetic mercy—but it hadn't been a distant echo from miles away, either. It was close enough that the calculus of survival was terrifyingly simple: running was a gamble, and the odds were catastrophically bad. If it wanted him, it would have him.
Ethan pressed his back hard against the rough bark of the tree trunk, trying to merge with it, to become just another knot in the wood. He tried to still his breathing, to wrestle the frantic, rabbit-like panting into something quieter, something that wouldn't betray him. His heart was a wild thing, a frantic drum against his ribs, each beat a thunderous announcement to whatever listened in the dark: Here I am. I am afraid. I am alone.
He tried to force his mind to work, to engage the rational, human part that was supposed to solve problems. Okay. Wolves. It could be wolves. Just animals. Dangerous, but…animals. They hunt for food. They're not…monsters. Don't panic. Panic is the enemy.
But even as the thought formed, a deeper, more instinctual certainty slid through him like ice water: whatever had issued that cry wasn't just an animal. Not here. Not in this place that had clicked into existence from a street corner. That sound had carried a weight of malice, an intelligence that knew exactly what fear was and savored it. It was a sound that belonged to the dark between the stars.
Crunch.
A dry leaf, crushed. Somewhere to his right.
Ethan froze, every muscle locking. His eyes, wide and straining, darted through the latticework of trees, searching the deepening shadows for movement, for shape, for anything. But the forest floor was a pool of spilled ink, and the thin, filtered moonlight only served to make the darkness seem deeper, more deceptive. He squinted until his eyes ached, his heartbeat a runaway train in his ears.
Silence. Only the faint, mocking whisper of a breeze through the highest needles.
He swallowed hard, the sound absurdly loud in the crushing stillness. His throat was parchment, dust-dry.
Move. You can't just sit here. You're a statue waiting for the pigeons to shit on you. A sitting duck. A…prey. The thoughts were jumbled, half-remembered phrases from a life that felt a thousand years gone. He had to move.
He forced himself to take a step forward. His worn sneaker sank into a patch of damp, spongy moss, the cold moisture immediately seeping through the canvas. Another step. Then another. Each one was a monumental effort of will. His breaths came in ragged, too-fast hitches, each one shallow and useless. He remembered a snippet from a documentary, a survivalist with a calm, weathered face saying, Panicked breathing wastes energy, clouds your judgment, makes you loud. Control your breath, control your fear. Ethan tried. He inhaled through his nose, a shaky, deliberate pull of cold air, held it for a count of three, and exhaled slowly through his mouth. It helped, for about two seconds. Then the sheer, overwhelming reality of his situation would crash back in, and the panic would rise again, a tide he couldn't hold back.
The forest was a symphony of creaks and groans around him, each one a potential footstep, a breath, a claw on bark. He walked without direction, a blind man in a maze of teeth. He walked until the last vestige of light was utterly extinguished, until the world was reduced to shades of black and deeper black, with only the faintest, teasing hints of silver moonlight leaking through occasional gaps in the branches high above. Each step he took felt like a detonation. The crunch of a twig under his sole was a gunshot. The scrape of his shoe against a rock was a screech of alarm. The soft brush of his jeans against a fern was a roar in the silence. Every sound made him flinch, his nerves scraped raw.
The rustle came again. Closer this time. Deliberate.
Ethan spun, his heart leaping into his throat. The sudden movement was his undoing. His foot, numb with cold and fear, slipped on a slick, moss-covered root. The world tilted. He cried out, a short, sharp gasp, as he pitched forward, sprawling onto the damp, unforgiving earth. The impact drove the air from his lungs in a painful whoosh. His already-scraped palms took the brunt of the fall, grinding against sharp gravel and rough root bark, a fresh, bright wave of pain lancing up his arms. He pushed himself up onto his knees, dirt and bits of decaying leaf smearing his hands and jeans, his chest heaving as he fought to drag air back into his starving lungs.
Then he raised his head.
And he saw them.
Two pinpricks of sickly greenish light in the profound dark. Low to the ground, about where a large predator's head would be. Unmoving. Watching.
Ethan's blood didn't just run cold; it seemed to crystallize in his veins.
The eyes blinked once, slowly, deliberately, a predator's lazy assessment. Then they shifted, gliding forward with an unnatural, silent smoothness through the underbrush. As if that were a signal, another pair flickered to life to his left. Pale yellow, like jaundiced moons. Then another set, a dull, fiery orange, to his right.
Three. No—his panicked count failed as a fourth pair, a deep, bloody crimson, ignited directly behind the tree he'd just fallen from. They were surrounding him. A closing circle of silent, glowing judgment.
"Oh, god…" The words were a dry rasp, torn from his ruined throat. He stumbled backward, a clumsy crab-walk, but his heel caught on the same treacherous root and nearly sent him down again. He threw out a hand, steadying himself against the rough trunk of a tree, the bark biting into his already-raw palm. His chest burned, each breath a fire.
The eyes drifted closer. Now, shapes began to coalesce from the shadows around them, outlined in the faint, eldritch glow they cast. Wolf-like, but a sculptor's nightmare interpretation of a wolf.
They were bigger, their shoulders bulging with muscle, standing nearly as high as his chest even as they slunk low to the ground. Their fur wasn't a pelt; it was a coarse, matted armor, bristling with unnatural, thorn-like ridges along their spines and haunches. Their jaws hung slack, too long, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth that gleamed with a faint, unhealthy moisture. Their paws, wide and heavy, pressed into the soft earth without a sound, claws like black iron digging into the soil. These were not creatures of nature. They were creatures of nightmare.
Predators. Designed for one purpose.
The lead one, the one with the green eyes, stepped fully into a thin shard of moonlight. The silver light cut across its monstrous snout, highlighting the coarse texture of its hide, the sheer mass of its skull. Its eyes weren't reflecting light; they were generating it from within, a pale, hungry luminescence that held no warmth, only a bottomless appetite.
Ethan's breath hitched in his throat, trapped. He wanted to scream, to plead, to pray, but his vocal cords were frozen, locked in a rictus of pure, undiluted terror.
The beast lowered its head, muscles coiling like steel springs beneath its hide. A low, rumbling growl began in its chest, a sound that vibrated through the ground and up through the soles of Ethan's shoes. It was the sound of a rockslide beginning.
Then it lunged.
It was blindingly fast. Ethan didn't think; his body reacted, throwing itself sideways in a desperate, graceless dive. The beast's bulk, all solid weight and momentum, slammed into the tree behind where he'd been standing. The impact wasn't just a thud; it was a crack of splintering wood, a sound of sheer, destructive power.
Ethan didn't wait. He scrambled, his hands clawing at the earth, his legs churning beneath him, driven by a fuel of pure adrenaline. He ran. Blindly. Madly. Branches became whips, lashing at his face and arms, drawing thin lines of fire. Roots reached up to snag his feet. Stones jabbed into the soft soles of his sneakers. His lungs were instantly aflame, each raw, gasping inhale a shard of glass in his chest.
Behind him, the forest erupted.
Heavy, thunderous paws pounded the earth, shaking it. Snarls and guttural barks ripped through the night air, closer than his own heartbeat. He could hear the crash and snap of undergrowth as one beast plowed through it directly behind him, while another, smarter, cut wide to his right, its passage eerily silent. They weren't just chasing him; they were working together, herding him, driving him like a sheep toward a slaughtering pen.
"No—no, no, no—" he gasped, the words torn away by his speed and the wind in his ears. Tears, born of terror and pain, streamed down his face, mingling with the sweat and dirt.
His wounded foot, the one that had slipped, caught on a hidden root. This time, there was no recovery. He pitched forward with a cry, his world becoming a tumbling, jarring kaleidoscope of dark ground and darker sky. He crashed into the dirt with a force that knocked the senses from him. Pain exploded across his shoulder, his knees, his face. He rolled, choking on the taste of soil and his own blood, his vision swimming with black spots.
He looked up, blinking to clear his sight, just in time to see a massive, shadowy form arc through the air toward him.
The wolf-beast lunged, its jaws gaping wide, a tunnel of glistening, sharp death.
Instinct, ancient and screaming, took over. There was no thought, only a desperate, flailing need to not die. Ethan shoved his left arm up in a pathetic, instinctual block. It was a stupid, sacrificial move.
The teeth sank in.
The pain was beyond anything he could have imagined. White-hot, searing, absolute. It wasn't a cut; it was a crushing, grinding annihilation of flesh and bone. His scream tore the night apart, a raw, animal sound of pure agony as the fangs ripped deep into his forearm. He felt a warm gush of blood immediately soak his sleeve, the heat of it shocking in the cold air. He kicked out wildly, his body thrashing, and his heel connected solidly with something—a rib, a shoulder. The beast snarled, a sound of annoyance more than pain, and shook its head violently, worrying the arm like a dog with a toy. The motion sent fresh, blinding waves of agony through him, and with a final, contemptuous toss, it released him.
Ethan rolled free, clutching his mangled arm to his chest. The world swam, blurring at the edges, the pain a nauseating tide threatening to pull him under. He could feel the ragged tears in his flesh, the stark, shocking presence of exposed bone.
Another shadow darted in from his blind side. Not a bite this time. Claws, like razors, raked across his thigh. They sliced through his jeans as if they were tissue paper and bit deep into the muscle beneath. He screamed again, the sound now hoarse, broken, barely human. His body convulsed, a puppet jerked by strings of terror and pain.
The thoughts were gone now, replaced by a single, screaming truth echoing in the void of his mind: I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I am prey. Just meat. This is all I ever was.
Somehow, driven by a final, desperate spark that refused to be extinguished, he staggered to his feet. Blood streamed down his arm, soaking his side, and poured from the gashes on his leg, making his jeans cling wetly and heavily. His injured leg dragged, a useless, screaming weight, each step an exercise in pure torment. His arm was a throbbing beacon of agony. The world tilted and spun with every lurching, stumbling stride.
But fear was a more potent drug than pain. It drove him onward.
Branches clawed at him, now feeling like mocking caresses compared to the wounds he already bore. His chest hitched and convulsed, each ragged, wet-sounding breath a struggle. Behind him, the pack howled again in unison, a chorus of triumph and hunger, the sound closer than ever, right on his heels.
He burst, stumbling, into a small, rocky clearing. The moon, for the first time, spilled its full, cold light across the space, revealing jagged teeth of grey stone pushing up through tough, pale grass. His eyes, wild and rolling, darted frantically, searching for an escape, for a weapon, for a hole to crawl into, for a miracle.
There was nothing. Only open ground, an arena under the stars.
The beasts emerged from the treeline, one by one, like specters materializing from smoke. They fanned out, encircling the clearing, their glowing eyes fixed on him. Their silence was more terrifying than any snarl. Saliva, thick and glistening, dripped from their exposed fangs. They prowled forward slowly now, with a terrible, confident leisure, savoring the end of the chase. The game was over.
Ethan stumbled backward, his boots scraping on stone, until his heel hit a larger, flat-topped rock. His strength gave out. His legs buckled, and he slammed down onto the cold stone, sitting there trembling, his bloodied arm cradled uselessly in his lap, his chest heaving like a bellows on the verge of collapse. His vision blurred at the edges, the darkness creeping in, a welcome unconsciousness promising to spare him the final moments.
He pressed himself back against the cold, unfeeling rock, a pathetic attempt to merge with it, to disappear. He shook his head, a feeble, childlike gesture of denial. "No. Please, no…" The words were a whisper, a breath, a final prayer to a god who wasn't listening here.
The lead wolf, the green-eyed one, lowered its head, its powerful shoulders bunching. It took a single, deliberate step forward. A deep, rumbling growl vibrated from its chest, a sound that promised an end to fear and pain in the most permanent way possible.
Ethan's hands, almost of their own volition, scrabbled blindly behind him on the surface of the rock he sat against. His fingers, numb and slick with his own blood, closed around something. It was jagged, sharp, and heavy. A broken shard of stone, a fist-sized piece of flint-like rock that had sheared off from the main formation. It was cold. It was real. It was the only thing in this world that was.
The beast's muscles uncoiled. It launched itself into the air, a black meteor of teeth and muscle set against the starry sky, its jaws opened wide for the killing bite to the throat.
Ethan's last scream was not one of fear, but of a raw, primal rage—a refusal. He screamed and, with the last vestige of his strength, thrust the jagged stone shard upward, not aiming, not thinking, just a blind, desperate, final act of defiance against the dying of the light.