"Are you transporting people? In that?"
A thousand fragmented theories crashed through my mind like shards of broken glass. Could it be that those who tried to restrain the wolf within themselves were simply locked away by the pack, hidden from the prying eyes of outsiders? But why? Was their struggle so unbearable that their entire lives revolved around clinging to humanity? No. That made no sense. Yet, what if resisting a nature that had already chosen their fate drove them to madness?
We stepped out of my father's car and faced a large van, a vehicle whose retirement to the junkyard had long been overdue. Even in the dim light, rust streaked along its edges like scars. The headlights' glass had clouded with age, tinting their beam a sickly yellow, as though filtered through some digital effect. The engine droned steadily, laboring to keep itself alive.
"They're no longer human. Nor are they werewolves," Denis murmured, just before father emerged from the building.
Kostya moved to the driver's cabin and exchanged a few curt words with the delivery man, who handed a ring of keys to father through the open window. Kostya took them and went to unload the van, signaling to two strangers who immediately followed, maneuvering heavy carts with enormous wheels along the rutted track beside our cars. I wanted to follow, to see these beasts Denis had mentioned—but he grabbed my elbow.
"It's better not to get too close. At least for you."
"Why shouldn't I?"
Denis tapped the tip of his nose with a finger. "Your scent. It's… too human. The dogs will sense it anyway, restless after the trip. Better not to provoke them."
Kostya yanked the cargo door open; it groaned in protest. The men moved with quiet precision, their efforts smooth and practiced. They lifted a thick metal plate, fixing it securely at the base of the van's cargo hold. Then came the cages—heavy, immense. It was too dark to see inside, but a warning growl told me everything I needed to know: these were no ordinary dogs.
As the first cage passed us, I caught a fleeting glimpse of the occupant. Monster barely described it. Paw size alone suggested an animal bred for the wild, but it was the eyes that froze me—almost human, as if they sought to pierce my soul, silently screaming for help when words had long since abandoned them. A brown one stared at me with gray, glassy eyes, and a soft howl escaped its throat. I instinctively stepped closer.
In an instant, the creature lunged, teeth bared—jaws far larger than those of any domestic dog. A guttural growl vibrated from its chest, and saliva dripped from its fangs.
"Quiet, I said!" Kostya barked. The animal pressed its ears back, whimpering, and sank low to the ground.
"She's my daughter," my father said softly. The beast's gaze flickered toward me, unsettling in its intelligence.
Could it truly understand him? A ridiculous, impossible thought. And yet… it felt so real.
I reminded myself of how people anthropomorphize pets, imagining their behaviors through human traits. A convenient illusion, giving owners emotions and control over the unpredictable. But here, with these creatures, the line between instinct and comprehension blurred in a way that made my heart pound.
I backed toward the building wall, keeping my eyes on the procession of cages. Identical cages vanished behind the kennel's open doors one by one, until the last was settled. Kostya closed the door with authority and ordered Denis and me to stay put.
"Beautiful, aren't they?" Denis murmured cautiously once we were alone.
"Beautiful," I replied automatically. "And terrifying at the same time. Each one… so clever. Almost human."
Denis nodded, pulling his jacket collar over his cold-red nose and exhaling warm breath.
"Denis," I finally broke the silence, "why do werewolves need dogs?"
He stayed silent, staring at some distant point. The answer would not be simple.
"Why do you think those were dogs?" he asked finally, turning his gaze on me.
"You said this is a kennel," I reminded him, nodding toward the building.
"I did."
"Well," I continued, "if it's called a kennel—and I just saw fifteen cages pass, each with either strays or poorly groomed malamutes—and if this house exists only by some understanding with the Karimovs, then… my question seems reasonable, doesn't it?"
Denis leaned back, legs spread for support, his patience visibly fraying.
"You saw what you wanted to see, not what really was there," he said.
"And what really was there?"
He gave me a tired, weary look, each question from me chipping away at his resolve.
"Something that will make you think."
I scowled at the evasive answer. "Think about what?"
"About everything," he said with a smirk, and the last crumbs of my patience dissolved along with the mist of his warm breath.
Then he added, quietly, almost reverently: "It's strange… you didn't notice how similar your eyes are."