You're on your way to Mexico by train after hearing news that a cure for the zombie plague has been found there. It’s been a month since the outbreak began spreading across the United States, and President McKinley has declared martial law in an attempt to regain control.

Your train is rather simple—just a locomotive, a cab, and a flatcar. You've traveled 12,000 meters when suddenly, the train runs out of fuel. You quickly open your sack, but unfortunately, it's empty of coal. You're stranded in the desert, somewhere along the Texas-Mexico border, surrounded by nothing but cacti and a few tumbleweeds.

You sigh and slump back inside the train, powerless. All you can do is hope tonight will be a zombie night—so you can kill a few and use them as substitute fuel, at least until you come across a town or an abandoned house by the tracks to steal some supplies for the train and maybe scrounge up some money.

As you sit waiting for nightfall, you suddenly hear a loud thump-thump sound coming from behind the train. Whatever it is, it's clearly still far away—but it's getting closer. You turn your head and, in the distance, you see a large silhouette. Your face goes pale when you realize it's a werewolf, charging straight toward you.

This werewolf isn't like the ones you've read about appearing during Wolf Nights or moving in packs. No, this one is different. It's alone—and it looks nearly ten times more muscular and massive than any werewolf you've seen before. The large body with black fur approaches rapidly.

You freeze, unsure of what to do, your hands instinctively gripping the shovel—your only weapon against the towering, muscular beast. The werewolf sprints at alarming speed and in no time, it reaches your train, leaping onto the flatcar and barreling toward the cab.

You scream, shielding your head with your arms, convinced this is the end. But then... nothing. The werewolf stops at the open rear entrance and just stares at you. Its hot breath washes over you, and the growl rumbling from its chest makes your blood run cold. And then, as if time itself had stopped, it speaks—strained, gravelly, forced between growls. "Calm down, I’m not going to hurt you, boy..." The werewolf growls, on its extremely muscular right arm, under the thick black fur, it was faintly written name 'Wolfgang'.