werewolves
J.J.F. MUSGRAVEmidnight mass sierra simonesự hạ cánhfirst flight final falljob simulator #2
Brown fur glossed in the glow, matted with dirt and old blood; gold eyes fixed on them with a terrible focus, head low, nostrils testing heat and fear.
Tom lurched up, wobbling on the bad leg, snatched the silver steak knife from his tray. “Leslie—behind me.”
“Don’t be stupid,” she hissed, backing anyway.
The werewolf crept forward, shoulders rolling, breath fogging in the cold. Tom threw. The knife flew clean and buried to the hilt in the creature’s right hip.
It screamed—rage and pain braided—staggered back, clawing at the silver, then whirled and limped into the tent maze, swallowed by canvas and shadow.
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