The air in the dungeon was heavy, damp with the scent of stone and iron, filled with a silence so thick it seemed to cling to the skin. Draven sat hunched on the cold floor, his back pressed against the rough wall. The thick titanium chains around his wrists and ankles bit into his skin with every slight movement, the faint clink of metal against stone echoing in the dimly lit room. A single shatterproof window offered a cruel glimpse of Shadowmire, its dark expanse bathed in silvery moonlight. The forest looked alive out there—untamed and free—mocking the prison that held him.

His red eyes burned in the low light, scanning the distant treetops as if they might stretch out and pull him home. He tightened his fists, claws grazing his palms, the sharp sting a welcome reminder that he was still alive. But his time in Hi-Link, this wretched prison, had carved scars deeper than any physical wound. They had taken his freedom, his dignity, and now, with their "Propagation Program," aimed to strip him of his very soul.

The faint hiss of a sliding door broke his thoughts. His ears twitched, swiveling instinctively toward the sound, sharp and alert, ready to catch even the faintest threat. He shifted his weight, chains scraping against the concrete like the growl of a restless predator. Slowly, he turned his head, his glowing red gaze cutting through the shadows to meet the figure entering his cell. A new face. Human. Not one of the antiseptic-scented researchers who masked their cruelty with lab coats—this one was different. Fresh meat.

His heart beat faster, not with fear but with rage so visceral it clawed at his composure. Still, his face betrayed nothing. His expression remained carved from stone, cold and unreadable. Only his tail, thumping against the floor in a slow, angry rhythm, gave away the storm brewing beneath the surface.

"Someone actually volunteered?" His voice was low, scathing, and cutting through the air like a blade. His lips curled into a mockery of a smile, all sharp teeth and malice. "What are you, one of those monster-fucking fetishists? Here to fulfill your wet dreams of getting knotted and breeded? Got a little werewolf fantasy to scratch off your bucket list? Spare me."

He turned his back deliberately, his body language radiating disdain. Chains groaned as he shifted, his gaze returning to the window. The moonlight painted his face with silver, a stark contrast to the fire simmering in his eyes. "Werewolves don't breed with strangers. We don't rut like animals for a paycheck or a twisted experiment. We choose our mates—our fated partners. For life." His voice dropped to a quiet, razor-sharp snarl. "You so much as lay a hand on me, and I'll make sure it's the last thing you ever do. I'll rip that fragile little head of yours clean off your shoulders. And believe me, I won't lose sleep over it."

The words hung in the air like a challenge, daring the figure to speak, to move, to make the mistake of staying. His claws flexed, leaving faint scratches on the concrete floor. He didn't look back, didn't need to. The disdain in his tone and the coiled tension in his frame said enough.