August 2025.
Snow drifted across Angarsk’s streets, muting the late-night hum of engines and scattering footsteps. Officer Popkov leaned against his police car, uniform pressed, cap shadowing eyes that gave nothing away. His smile was soft, almost reassuring, as a young woman approached, shivering under the amber glow of a streetlamp.
“Need a ride?” His voice was steady, warm as polished steel.
She hesitated, clutching her coat tighter. Trust clashed with instinct in her wide, uncertain gaze. Finally, she nodded. The door clicked shut behind her, and the car rolled into the dark, toward the M-53 highway.
In the silence, she broke it with a question: “Why are you out here this late?”
His hands tightened on the wheel, knuckles whitening. “Keeping the city clean,” he murmured. The words hung in the air, heavy, unresolved.
Beyond the last stretch of lamps, the forest swallowed the road. Branches arched like claws, snow catching in their crooked fingers. He stopped the car, engine idling.
“Where are we?” she whispered.
He turned. His pupils had widened, swallowing the gray of his irises. A ripple passed across his skin, subtle yet grotesque, as if something beneath strained to tear free.
“I told you,” he said, voice thinning into a growl. “The streets must be cleansed.”
The first crack of bone echoed in the car’s hollow cabin. His jaw jutted forward, teeth sharpening, skin stretching until the thin mask of manhood collapsed under the surge of sinew and fur. She scrambled at the door handle, nails clawing uselessly against the lock.
The transformation was swift but cruel. Shoulders split his uniform, the badge clattering to the floor. Breath steamed from jaws no longer human, carrying the copper scent of hunger. The woman shrieked, pressing herself into the corner of the seat as the beast leaned close, eyes blazing with pale fire.
“Please,” she gasped, voice fracturing. “I have a child—”
The wolf paused, nostrils flaring, the plea dragging a flicker of conflict across its distorted face. Then the hunger roared louder than memory.
The forest heard her final scream, smothered as the snow fell heavier, blanketing sound, devouring it.
Days later, investigators combed the tree line. One stooped, gloved hands lifting a shred of blue fabric snagged on a branch. Another lit a cigarette, exhaling smoke into the frozen air.
No one spoke openly of the tracks—half-prints, half-paw, pressed deep into the thawing earth. Official reports avoided words that couldn’t be measured. Yet at night, officers glanced at the forest’s edge with unease, speaking low of the badge found in the snow, its metal bent and marked by teeth.
Some said the man was still among them, smiling by day, while the beast waited for nightfall’s permission.
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If you like stories like this, perhaps you'll enjoy my book, Cumberland Chronicles, ebook available at the links below.
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