Even though it was spring in the city, the heat had been relentless for a week—the kind that makes asphalt smell like melted caramel and turns people into limp fish: no energy, no will to change anything, just waiting for the relief of evening cool.
I step out of the metro and immediately take off my sneakers. Just to feel the chill of the stone beneath my feet, to remind myself I'm still alive.
It's early morning, the air not yet dusted by the day's noise, but the city center is already busy—street musicians, caffeine addicts at every corner. Someone is setting up an arch of balloons in the square; it's festival day. For some it's an excuse to spend money, for me—a chance to leave work early.
I'm carrying a camera bag, my usual "everything's under control" smile on, though inside, nothing's been under control for a while.
The café on the corner smells of caramelized cream and cinnamon. I go in, order my regular latte—the barista nods, glancing at my press badge.
– On air today?
– Yep, as always, – I say, dropping a few coins in the tip jar.
People are chatting, someone laughs, a skater flashes by with a spotted dog on a leash.
I avoid eye contact with anyone—morning is my only safe time. During the full moon, the dreams get to me, and on days like this, even the wrong song can send me over the edge.
I head out to the square, filming passersby, catching shots of kids with cotton candy, making quick notes on my phone. Same routine: capture the moment, hide in the crowd.
On the main stage, the local "stars" are gathering—someone from the city hall, and my boss: strict, skinny, always a cigarette between her fingers.
– Lisa, you're live in twenty, – she says, not looking up from her iPad.
I smile, hiding my nerves behind my practiced "all good."
The closer to noon, the hotter it gets. The air smells of dust, melting asphalt, street food, and something else—sharp, animal, familiar enough to give me goosebumps.
Suddenly, the crowd parts for a second, and I see him for the first time. Tall, dark hair, classic suit, sharp features. He's on the phone, staring at me, unwavering. A shiver runs down my back.
I look away, pretending to adjust my camera.
Someone brushes my shoulder—when I turn, I see a second guy: athletic, tank top, tattoo on his forearm, sizing me up.
Something inside me tightens—a warning siren:
"Careful."
I exhale, grab the mic, and head toward the stage.
Everything sounds muffled, faces blur, smells become sharp, almost slicing.
It's just the heat. Just work. Just another live broadcast.
But deep down, something wolfish is stirring.
Today something will change.
I just don't know what.
The tech guy checks the mic, hands me an earpiece. I smile on autopilot.
– Going live in ten… nine…
A balloon pops above the square.
– …Three, two, one—we're live!
That's it. You're on.
My hand's shaking, but I manage.
– Good morning, city! We're here in the main square, where today…
Suddenly a harsh buzz—maybe in my head, maybe in the speakers. A flash of a face. Again, the suit, those dark eyes, and he's looking straight at me.
Breathing gets harder, like the world's closing in.
I feel something wild scraping inside, old, forgotten…
The broadcast rolls on, but I'm half-listening, catching words, missing half of them.
When it's finally over, I nearly bolt backstage.
My phone already has a dozen strange messages:
"Do you know who you are?"
"Run."
And one, no signature:
"We found you."
Just like in a movie: I'm standing behind the stage, heart still pounding as if trying to escape without me. All around, voices, balloons bursting, music and someone's laughter—too loud, too sharp. I clutch my camera bag strap like it might protect me and slip out a side exit, where it smells of cheap paint and dust.
The streets are full, but for the first time, I feel truly alone. Even Mom is busy today.
Five minutes ago, it was just another day. Now every face in the crowd looks suspicious, every glance lingers too long. Sometimes I'm sure someone's following me, but whenever I turn, there's no one.
Messages keep popping up—some anonymous, some almost jokes:
"Can you see us?"
"You're not getting far."
I turn off notifications, but it feels like the very air's pressing in.
I cut through the park, benches scorched by the sun, shadows barely helping. Someone says something as I pass—maybe my name, maybe just a phrase, I can't tell.
Then a black sedan cruises by. Just like a hundred others, but I feel the urge to hurry. I check my route—usually through the market, the subway, then home.
But today, instead of the market, I duck into a quiet courtyard.
Too quiet.
At the corner, I feel someone's stare—a guy in a gray t-shirt, clearly not local, way too attentive, way too calm. I veer sharply, slip into a nearby store to get lost in the crowd.
But three follow me in. Two grab bottles of water, the third just stands, watching the shelves.
I pretend to be picking out gum, scan the exits: back door through the stockroom, maybe, if I'm lucky.
My phone vibrates:
"Don't be stupid, Lisa. Let's talk and you can go."
Everything inside clenches.
I head for the register, someone blocks me, standing too close for a second. The tattooed guy glances over—cold, alien. I ditch my stuff and slip out almost running, swallowing panic. It's broad daylight, but I'm drenched in fear.
I speed up—cutting across lawns, dodging between parked cars, hearing someone behind me call my name.
– Lisa!
I don't turn.
– Lisa!
The voice chases me into the city's gray heart, where all the buildings look alike and every stranger's eyes are indistinguishable.
I break into a run—as if I can outrun not just them, but myself.
A familiar old cinema sign flashes on my left—there, it'll be dark, I can hide, catch my breath.
I dash inside, press myself into a corner, holding my breath.
It's dark in the hallway, smells of old popcorn and cardboard, a door creaks somewhere.
Footsteps behind the wall.
Two steps. Pause. I hug the wall, count my breaths.
Steps closer.
– Don't be afraid, – the voice is soft, but too sure to be random, – no one's going to hurt you.
I ball my fist—if anything, I'll bite.
A silhouette appears from the shadows—the guy from the café.
– Lisa, – he gives a faint smile. – Don't run, you'll only make it worse.
I glare at him.
– You're alone, – he goes on. – Just let us talk, and maybe it'll be easier than you think.
A door bangs behind me—another guy, tattoo, the stubborn look from my window.
– Did you really think you'd get away?
He sounds almost gentle, but his voice scrapes with irritation.
I step back, eyes scanning for a second exit.
– What do you want? – my voice cracks, but I'm not giving in.
– Just listen, – the older one says, short and to the point. Wait—that's the cereal guy.
Only one thought spinning in my head: If I get out of here, I'll never come back to this city.
I stand tall, but inside I'm one wrong breath from shattering. They're watching me, waiting for a signal—like it's all over if I flinch.
Adrian takes a slow step forward—calm, steady, the look you give a wild animal when you're not sure if it'll bite.
– No one's here to hurt you, – his voice is soft, almost soothing.
Behind him, Julian's lips twist—he has a hunter's look, but his face is tired.
– Let's just talk, Lisa. Don't do anything stupid.
I act like I'm shrinking back—step, shoulder nearly against the wall. Swallow, eyes down, let them think I'm scared, ready to obey.
– Okay… – I whisper, shaky. – Just…
– Just what? – Ethan raises an eyebrow, studying me.
– Water? – my voice is barely a whimper. – I feel sick…
Lucas reacts first—rushes to the vending machine, distracted for just a moment. Julian, thinking he's won, moves in, grabs my elbow like a coach with a rookie.
That's when I twist—elbow jab, not hard, just sudden. I slip between the two who let their guard down.
– Sorry, guys—today, I'm running!
I dart along the wall, break for the back door—the alarm blares, everything freezes for a second in red flashes. Shouts behind me, someone curses, someone laughs:
– Stubborn wolf!
– Catch her!
I sprint through the corridors, dodge between theater rows, tumble down the stairs—my heart pounding so loud it must echo through the whole block.
One almost grabs my sleeve, but I wriggle free, dash into a service hallway, push out into the street.
The sunlight blinds me, heat feels like salvation. I run without looking back, lungs burning, legs shaking.
Behind me, footsteps and a voice—irritated, almost admiring:
– Clever little wolf…
I vanish into the crowd, blend in, rip off my press badge, tie up my hair. Breath ragged, hands trembling, but inside—victory.
At least for now, I got away. Even if it's just for a few hours.
Home—a tiny third-floor apartment in an old building with thin walls and windows always open, even in the heat. I take the stairs two at a time, almost crash into the neighbor from the fourth floor, who always grumbles about noise, but today just stares, startled.
I slam the door, lean back against the cold wood. For a few seconds I just stand there—letting myself believe I'm home, safe, just the thud of my heart and the city's hum outside.
The hallway smells like coffee and something safe, childhood, maybe, for a second. I kick off my sneakers, drop my bag on the couch, peel off my blazer—it suddenly feels too tight.
In the mirror—my face, but not mine: eyes too bright, cheeks flushed, sweat drying in uneven patches.
I stare for a long time, as if I might see signs of the "last wolf girl" everyone's searching for.
Dishes clatter in the kitchen—Mom's home, so I have at least a few minutes of peace.
I take a deep breath, try to gather my thoughts. Pull back the curtain, peek out the window. Life goes on below—kids in the yard, someone walking a dog, people arguing by the door. No familiar faces.
Then Mom appears in the kitchen doorway—a mug of tea in one hand, phone in the other.
– You look like you were running from a pack of dogs, – she says with a wry smile, but her expression tightens as she sees me.
– Mom, – I try to smile, but it doesn't work. – Just… a tough day.
She watches me, that practiced look—ten seconds of worry, understanding, and something like guilt flickering in her eyes.
– They found you, didn't they?
Her voice is barely above a whisper.
I tell her everything: the cinema, the stares, how they cornered me, but how, weirdly, it didn't scare me as much as a fight in the yard or a random panic attack on the bus.
She just listens, sometimes nodding, her face more serious by the second. I realize it doesn't matter to her who's to blame—only that I made it back in one piece.
I fall silent, and suddenly, like a dream, memory floods in: that night when I was sixteen.
It was summer, late July. Sweltering, windows wide open, a trail of moonlight across the roof outside. Mom already asleep. I couldn't settle, sweating, heart pounding like I'd swallowed something wild.
At some point, I stopped recognizing my own hands—the skin weirdly pale, fingers cramped, nails slightly longer, not quite mine.
I clung to the sheets, breathing fast, sure someone was watching me in the dark, while outside, faint and distant, a wolf howled.
I remember hitting the floor, trying to crawl under the bed, but instead, I felt something strange—an unexpected freedom. My body turned light, as if the bones disappeared, and everything inside filled with some new, inexplicable light.
There was a strange rhythm in my head—not words, not music, but something ancient, like a voice deep inside calling my name. I don't remember pain—just trembling, a rush of energy, and a desperate urge to run anywhere, just run.
I remember opening the window—somehow, impossibly easy—and seeing the huge moon right in front of me, so bright it felt like I could reach out and touch it.
I wanted to howl. I really did. I even tried—quiet, barely audible—but inside, everything grew calm, like I'd finally heard what I'd been longing for.
When I woke, it was morning. I was on the floor, under the open window, barefoot, pajama torn, cheeks dusty, hands shaking.
The first thing I saw was a thin white line on my wrist, as if from a claw.
For a long time I couldn't remember how I got there.
But when Mom walked in and saw me like that, she understood instantly—I could see it on her face, even if she tried to act like everything was normal.
I shiver, snapping back to the present. The kitchen hasn't changed: tea, dusk, the smell of fresh bread.
Mom's looking at me, her eyes holding that same worry I saw that morning.
– Lisa, after that night I was sure it was over, that we'd all become normal, – she says quietly, staring out the window. – But you… you were different. I didn't know what to do about it, except one thing: I couldn't let you be alone.
She gives a hesitant smile, almost apologetic.
– That night, I called your grandmother right away, – her voice shakes a little more than usual. – We decided not to touch the past, not until you wanted to know.
I nod silently, and suddenly, under my skin, I feel that rhythm again—the echo of the moon, the call that never fades, no matter how hard you pretend to be ordinary.