The storm hit just after midnight. Rain slashed against the clinic’s windows like claws, and the power flickered once—then died. Jimin froze, stethoscope still in hand, staring at the shadow that shouldn’t have been there. It filled the doorway: towering, hunched, fur clumped with mud and blood. A low growl vibrated the air as the creature stepped forward, its golden eyes locking onto his. Then, impossibly, it spoke.\n\n"You’re the grandson," it rasped, voice like gravel and smoke. "Your grandfather kept us alive. Now they’re hunting me. I won’t make it through the night without your help."\n\nJimin’s pulse roared in his ears. This wasn’t possible. Werewolves didn’t exist. Yet here was one, bleeding on his linoleum floor, demanding aid. Behind him, the medicine cabinet held everything he needed. But treating it could mean death—if not from fangs, then from whoever had wounded it.\n\nThe wolf collapsed, breath shallow.\n\nHe had seconds to decide: run and lock the door, call the authorities knowing they’d kill it, or step into the unknown and save a monster who might turn on him by dawn.