WEREWOLVES MAY CRY

Chapter 4 - A Wolf's Shadow

### Chapter Four – A Wolf’s Shadow ###

The city never shut up.

Bryan lay on the thin mattress of his room above Pa. Clever’s pawn shop, staring at the ceiling while horns blared somewhere down on Clark Street. The radiator hissed like it was choking to death. His crossbow leaned against the wall, loaded, ready.

He should have been asleep. He wasn’t.

Because someone was watching him.

Not tonight, maybe. But recently. He could feel it. Like a set of eyes carved into his spine every time he turned a corner.

Bryan sat up, rubbing his face with both hands. “Get a grip,” he muttered. His voice sounded too loud in the cramped room.

But the memory of last night’s hunt clawed through his head. That wolf in the alley. The way it died too easily, as if the kill had been rehearsed. And worse—the way his own hands hadn’t shaken.

They should have. He wasn’t a soldier. He was just a kid who’d learned to shoot because Pa. Clever dangled money and food over his head. But last night, in that alley, he’d moved like he’d done it a thousand times before.

And those eyes.

For half a second, he’d seen his reflection in the wolf’s dying gaze. His own pupils, rimmed with amber light.

Bryan’s chest tightened.

“No,” he whispered, pressing his palms against his knees. “That’s not real. That didn’t happen.”

But the image refused to leave.

---

Sleep came eventually, but it wasn’t mercy.

The dream returned—the same one that had stalked him since he was six years old.

The smell of iron in the air. The sound of screaming. His mother’s hand, warm and wet in his tiny fingers, pulling him through the dark.

“Run, Bryan,” she whispered. Her voice was like a broken glass. “Don’t look back.”

But of course he did. He always did.

And there—beyond the flames of their burning house—stood a figure. Tall, broad, wrapped in shadows. Eyes like fire.

Bryan tried to scream at him, to curse him, but his voice never worked in the dream.

His mother fell. He felt her grip loosen, then vanish.

And the cry that ripped from her chest tore through his skull every night.

Bryan stood upright in bed, sweat all over his skin. His chest heaved as though he’d run miles.

For a long time, he just sat there, staring at the dark.

Then he whispered, “I’ll kill you, whoever you are. I’ll kill you with my own hands.”

---

By morning, Pa. Clever was already yelling.

“Bryan! You think the silver bolts polish themselves?”

Bryan dragged himself downstairs, hair a mess, shirt wrinkled. Pa. Clever sat behind the counter, surrounded by a half-disassembled clock and three half-empty coffee cups.

“You look like hell,” the old man said cheerfully. “What’d you do, fight the night again?”

“Something like that,” Bryan muttered, grabbing the silver bolts and cloth.

Pa. Clever leaned back, smiling like a devil in suspenders. “Good boy. Keep those shiny. You never know when you’ll need to stick one in a furry bastard.”

Bryan forced a smile, though his gut twisted. He hated wolves. Hated them with every fiber. But last night, in the alley…

He swallowed hard and polished faster.

“You’re too quiet,” Pa. Clever said suddenly. His eyes narrowed. “Quiet means trouble. Trouble means I gotta fix something. Don’t make me fix you, boy.”

Bryan smirked faintly. “Relax. I’m just tired.”

“Good. Stay tired. Tired boys follow orders.” Pa. Clever shoved a slip of paper toward him. “New job. Pack spotted on the South Side. You’re going.”

Bryan picked up the note, jaw tightening. “Alone?”

“Alone pays double.” Pa. Clever muttered and said mockingly, “kid, you know I can lay my life for you.”

Bryan snorted. “You’re a saint, you liar.”

“I’m a businessman, and I might sound like a liar,” Pa. Clever corrected with a wink.

---

The South Side was quieter that night, but not in a safe way. Too few cars. Too many shadows.

Bryan moved through the alleys, crossbow loaded, every sense screaming. The further he went, the sharper everything became, the scrape of rats under trash cans, the flicker of neon signs three blocks away, even the faint drip of water on brick.

He clenched his jaw. What the hell is happening to me?

A growl echoed. Not deep this time, higher, almost curious.

Bryan spun, bolt raised.

Nothing. Just the ripple of trash bags in the wind.

His heart hammered. He swallowed hard and backed up against the wall.

Then he felt it—eyes again. Watching.

Not from the shadows this time. From across the street.

There she was.

Dark jacket, hair tied back, posture too sharp for a civilian. He hadn’t seen her before, but every instinct screamed she wasn’t random.

And she wasn’t hiding. She wanted him to know she was there.

Bryan raised the crossbow, aiming directly at her chest.

Her eyes didn’t flinch.

For a long, suspended moment, they stared across the empty street, hunter and prey unsure which was which.

Then Bryan spoke, voice low, steady. “If you’re going to follow me, at least buy me dinner first.”

The corner of her mouth twitched—almost a smile. Almost.

Bryan’s finger tightened on the trigger.

And that was when the growl returned—louder, closer, rolling through the street like thunder.

Both of them turned.

From the alley behind Mayer, a shape emerged. Massive. Fur matted with blood.

Bryan’s chest froze.

Not one. Two.

They stalked toward her, jaws dripping.

She drew her blade, fluid and calm. Bryan’s instincts screamed at him.

Not to run.

Not to watch.

To protect her.