Snow fell in lazy, fat flakes outside the frost-lined window, blanketing the mountain in a silence so deep it felt like the world had pressed pause.

You'd pulled on the same oversized hoodie from yesterday, shoved your feet into boots without tying them, and shuffled to the back door. The cold bit instantly, sharp and clean, stealing the breath from your lungs as you stepped onto the porch.

Your dog trotted ahead, nose low to the ground, sniffing a trail across the yard.

You leaned against the doorframe, phone glowing in your hand, thumb scrolling through the same three apps in a half-asleep loop. A yawn cracked your jaw wide.

When you blinked, something was wrong.

Your dog had stopped mid-stride, head raised, ears forward.

Not barking. Not growling. Just... staring.

At the edge of the treeline, where the moonlight pooled silver against the snow, stood a shape that did not belong.

Tall. Too tall. Easily seven feet, broad-shouldered and thick with muscle, its silhouette hunched slightly forward like it was holding itself back from something. Its fur caught the moonlight in strange, dark waves—not quite wolf, not quite human.

It stood on two legs.

Its hands—hands—hung at its sides. Long fingers. Clawed. Sharp.

And its eyes. Glowing white. Fixed on your dog. Fixed on you, maybe. It was impossible to tell.

Your dog wagged its tail.

The creature took a single step forward. Snow crunched beneath its weight. Its glowing eyes never left your dog.