Brett’s Perspective
This damn place was boring enough to drive you insane.
No windows. No sunrise or sunset to mark the day. Just that godawful, sickly-white fluorescent light overhead, buzzing twenty-four seven. Ti had turned into a thick, congealed glue, crawling forward. No phone, no computer, no gas, not even a tattered magazine. Just four walls of bare, dark green paint, a hard bunk, a stainless-steel toilet, and... Luka.
Luka was mostly silent. He’d either curl up in his corner with his eyes closed, or lean against the wall, staring into the empty space across from him with a hollow look, lost in thoughts I couldn’t guess. I’d tried asking him more about this place, about the n who caught us, about how a werewolf survives in a hole like this. At first, he’d grunt a few dismissive answers. Later, he wouldn’t even bother opening his eyes, just a low, irritated rumble from his throat: "Save your breath, pup. You’ll need it."
He wasn’t a model ‘cellmate’ or so kind of guardian. No comfort, no encouragent. Just rough, practical survival advice delivered with a detached edge. How to conserve energy with minimal movent. How to pick the barely-edible bits out of the slop they served that slled like garbage water. And the most important one—stay alert. Always. Even asleep.
Even the water tasted of heavy chlorine, burning on the way down. I hated everything about this place. The air, the light, the slls, the loneliness, and this crushing feeling of helplessness. I missed ho. My own room. Mom’s slightly-burnt waffles. The reliable scent of motor oil and sweat that clung to Dad when he worked on cars in the yard. I even missed Kai’s occasional annoying taunts, and the wild, carefree rush of running with Aurora .
Aurora ... Where was she now? Did she get away? Or...
I didn’t let myself finish the thought.
I didn’t know how long it had been—maybe a night? My body clock was completely wrecked in here. I was drifting in that hazy space between sleep and waking when a harsh buzzer blared from the corridor outside, followed by heavy footsteps and the tallic clang of cell doors being unlocked in sequence.
Luka’s eyes snapped open. All traces of his earlier languid indifference vanished. He was tense as a drawn bowstring. He stood up swiftly, brushing non-existent dust off his clothes.
"Get up," he said to in a low, serious voice. "Yard ti. Stay close. Don’t fall behind."
Yard ti? It took a second. Like in prison movies? I scrambled off the hard bunk, my legs prickling with pins and needles from sitting too long.
"Luka, where are we going? Just... a walk?" I whispered, an unfamiliar nervousness coiling in my gut.
Luka shot a glance that made feel stupid for asking. "The yard. And to ‘check in.’" He paused, his voice dropping even lower. "Listen, kid. This place has its own rules. A lone wolf doesn’t last here. Especially a pup with no fangs yet. Stick with . Do what I do. Keep your mouth shut, your eyes down, and for fuck’s sake, don’t look scared. Got it?"
I swallowed and nodded. His tone made it clear this was no stroll in the park.
The cell door swung open from the outside. A guard in the sa dark blue uniform stood there, face blank, a baton in his hand. Luka walked out first. I followed, half a step behind. The corridor was filling with others, moving in small groups, all in identical grey jumpsuits. I was still in my own clothes, a glaring target. The air stank of sweat, unwashed bodies, and disinfectant.
These n... My heart hamred as I stole quick glances. Most were big, solid, with hard or empty eyes. Tattoos crawled over faces, necks, arms. So gazes raked over us like shards of glass, lingering on with undisguised appraisal and... an unsettling kind of interest. Among them, I caught faint whiffs of my own kind. But the scents were weak, muddied by layers of sothing darker and more complicated—similar to Luka’s, but fouler.
This was no ordinary holding cell. Nothing here was ‘ordinary.’
We moved with the flow through several corridors, past heavy doors opened with keys or keycards by guards, finally erging into a walled-in concrete yard. The sky was a dull grey slab. The yard wasn’t large. A few rusted pull-up bars and a basketball hoop stood in one corner. Dozens of n were already scattered around, clustered in distinct groups.
Luka didn’t hesitate. He headed straight for one corner where about seven or eight n stood together—the largest and most imposing group in the yard. Their eyes t Luka’s as we approached. When their attention shifted to , I felt like a rabbit circled by hawks.
"Hey, kid." A massive man blocked our path. He was bald, with a thick neck covered in snarling tattoos. He grinned, but it didn’t touch his eyes. His voice had that classic, street-gang cadence I knew from movies. "Fresh at? Lookin’ soft. Wanna taste so ‘black sausage,’ huh?" He thrust his hips forward suggestively. His buddies erupted in a wave of ugly laughter.
Blood roared in my ears. Fear was instantly swallowed by a white-hot surge of anger. I knew exactly what he was implying. The vile insult churned my stomach. The wolf in my blood snarled. I hadn’t had my first shift, but the instinct to protect myself, to fight back, roared to life. I was fourteen, but I was Jacob and Selena’s son! My fists clenched so tight my nails bit into my palms. My body tensed, ready to lunge at him—to make him hurt even if I couldn’t win.
Just as the muscles in my shoulders coiled, Luka’s hand clamped down on my wrist like an iron vise. The pain made flinch. He stepped forward, putting himself fully between and the big man. He looked up at him, his face expressionless, but his voice was winter-cold.
"Back off, *nigga*." Luka’s voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the lingering laughter. "The kid’s under my wing. Find your fun elsewhere."
The air froze. The big man’s grin vanished, replaced by raw nace. His crew stopped laughing, their stares turning hostile, fixed on Luka. Luka didn’t back down an inch. He t the gaze head-on, radiating a street-hardened, reckless ferocity that matched the other man’s bulk.
The standoff lasted a few seconds. The big man spat on the ground, muttering a slurred curse, and finally turned away, his crew following. But the venomous glance he shot over his shoulder promised this wasn’t over.
"Idiot," Luka muttered under his breath, releasing my wrist. I wasn’t sure if he ant or the other guy. "Showing off gets you dead fastest here. Stay close."
Heart still pounding, I followed him into the midst of the group in the corner. These n seed... sharper? Or quieter, with sothing deeper and more calculating in their eyes. I noticed it imdiately—their scents were closer to Luka’s. Werewolves. Strays. They gave Luka slight nods of acknowledgnt, then their collective focus settled on , scrutinizing.
The group parted slightly, revealing the man at its center. He sat on an upturned plastic bucket, maybe in his thirties, with short-cropped blond hair, sharp features, and piercing blue eyes. He wore the jumpsuit, but the sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing corded forearms marked with old scars. He was idly fiddling with a small, intricate shape folded from cigarette foil. He looked casual, but when his gaze lifted to et ours, every hair on my body stood up.
Danger. Not the loud, blustering kind of the street thug. This was a contained danger, like a riptide beneath a calm ocean surface, like a razor-sharp blade kept sheathed. His werewolf scent was strong, but layered with notes of gun oil, old blood, and a chilling sense of... cold order.
Luka motioned for to wait and stepped forward. He bowed his head slightly, speaking to the blond man in a low, respectful tone. I couldn’t make out the words, but I saw Luka explaining, gesturing toward . Occasionally, the blond man would glance my way. His eyes felt like scalpels, leaving exposed.
I knew they could sll it on —the pack-raised wolf, carrying the scent of family and structure, so different from the free-wheeling, chaotic wildness of the strays. But here, in this iron cage, pack affiliation mattered far less than the simple ability to survive. Add to that my status as a ‘pup’ yet to face his first moon... in the raw calculus of this place, I was no different from a stray’s vulnerable young.
After a brief exchange, Luka gestured for to co over. I took a deep breath and walked forward, trying to project calm while my heart thundered against my ribs.
The blond man—the leader of this small pack of strays—set down his foil toy and stood up. He towered over by more than a head, looking down with those unreadable blue eyes.
"Luka says you want to run with us." His voice was deep and even. No theatrical nace like the other guy, just pure, oppressive pressure.
I glanced at Luka. He gave an almost imperceptible nod. I understood. This wasn’t about ‘want.’ It was about ‘must.’ Here, there was no neutral ground. You picked a side, or you got ground under everyone’s heel.
"Yes," I heard myself say, my voice scratchy.
The blond man studied for a few more seconds. Then, unexpectedly, he opened his arms and pulled into a rough, almost ritualistic embrace, thumping hard on the back. His scent—wolf, tal, old blood, and a sharp, cold aftershave—engulfed .
"Welco to the fold, little lost wolf," he murmured near my ear. His tone held little warmth, more a statent of fact, a claiming. "In here, follow the rules, follow orders, we’re your teeth and claws. Cause trouble, or betray us..." He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. The ice in his blue eyes as he released said it all.
I took a step back and nodded, my throat tight. The other strays looked on, their scrutiny softening into a vague sense of acknowledgent—or maybe just the assessnt of a new piece of shared property.
Just like that, in this surreal, dangerous, humiliating place, I’d joined a gang of stray werewolves.
A wave of absurd unreality washed over . I was Jacob and Selena’s son. A mber of the Moonlight Pack. And now I was seeking protection in a prison yard like so genuine street urchin.
But a small, stubborn voice whispered from deep inside: *This is temporary. Dad. Mom. Aurora ... Soone will co. I just have to survive until they do.*
Yard ti ended. Following Luka’s and the blond leader’s cues, I walked back with their group toward the cellblock. We passed the big man and his crew. Their gazes were dark and sullen, but they made no move this ti.
Walking with the crowd, each step felt unsteady, like the ground was shifting beneath . This hellhole was swiftly and brutally rewriting everything I knew about the world.
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