The road twisted through the Colorado mountains like a long, cracked ribbon, disappearing and reappearing between pines. Stiles kept one hand steady on the wheel of the black Nissan R34 Nismo Z-Tune, the engine humming its smooth, deep growl beneath him. The car felt powerful, almost alive, and he still couldn't fully wrap his mind around the fact that Ronan had given it to him.
The morning sun hadn't risen fully yet; the sky was a bluish gray, the kind of cold light that made the world feel half-awake. But Stiles wasn't sleepy. Not even close. His mind was running faster than the engine.
This was it.His first real hunt alone.
He'd trained for years. Memorized hundreds of cases. Learned to fight, track, build traps, analyze patterns, and stay calm when things went wrong. But training wasn't the same as doing. And the pressure of being trusted with something this big — a possible werewolf attack — sat heavy in his chest.
He tightened his grip on the wheel.
Ronan trusted him.Ronan believed he was ready.So he had to be.
Still, the words echoed in his head:
"Hesitation gets you killed."
Stiles exhaled slowly."I won't hesitate this time," he murmured to himself. "Not again."
The car carved through a narrow turn, the mountain dropping off to his left side like a dark abyss. He pressed the accelerator a little more, letting the R34 glide across the asphalt effortlessly. The car responded to him exactly as if it had been waiting for him — sharp, precise, steady.
His first hunt alone.His first kill alone… if it came to that.
And deep down, Stiles knew it would.
THE VILLAGE
Two hours later, Stiles rolled into the village Ronan had mentioned. It was small — barely thirty houses, most built with old timber, leaning a little from the weight of harsh winters. A few scattered cars sat parked along the dirt road, and smoke rose from chimneys, curling quietly into the cold air.
But something felt wrong.Immediately.The silence.
Villages in the mountains usually had sound — dogs barking, children yelling, people arguing or working or living.
But here?Nothing.
Stiles parked the R34 near a general store whose windows were half-covered by dusty curtains. As he stepped out, he scanned the area just like Ronan had taught him.
Look for patterns.
Look for things that don't belong.
Look for fear.
He saw it right away — the way people who were outside kept glancing at the forest edge. The way no one walked alone. The way some windows had boards nailed over them.
Yep.There was definitely something here.
He shut the car door quietly and walked toward the first person he saw — an older man splitting firewood behind his porch. His hands moved rhythmically, but his eyes flicked up, alert, cautious.
"Morning," Stiles said politely.
The man studied him for a moment. "You're not from here."
"No. Just visiting." Stiles put on his best casual smile. "I heard there have been… some animal attacks."
That got the man's attention. He paused mid-swing. "We don't talk much about that around here."
Stiles nodded like someone who understood but didn't back down. "I'm just curious. Figured if I'm staying around the area, I should know what's out there."
The man hesitated, his jaw tightening. "People died."
"How?"
"Fast." The man swallowed. "And whatever's doing it… it doesn't leave much chance to run."
Stiles kept his face neutral, but inside he was already analyzing.
Fear level high.Vague description.Not an ordinary animal.
"Anyone see it?"
"Just shadows. Heavy footsteps at night. Growling. My nephew swears he saw eyes in the treeline. Yellow ones."
Werewolf eyes were often yellow… but not always.
"Where?"
The man pointed toward the mountains."The north ridge. People don't go up there anymore."
Stiles nodded. "Thanks. I appreciate it."
"Don't go up there, kid."The man's tone changed — firm, almost pleading."Things in those woods aren't right."
Stiles forced a small smile. "I'll be careful."
He spent the next hour going door to door, asking questions, taking notes in a small notebook he kept tucked in his jacket.
Patterns started forming:
All disappearances happened at night.
All near the north ridge.
Victims were dragged, not chased.
Sounds described as growling or heavy breathing.
Footprints reported but never identified.
Classic early-stage werewolf behavior.But something else bothered him — the villagers weren't describing aggression toward houses or groups. Only lone targets.
That meant intelligence.
That meant instincts.
That meant this omega wasn't entirely feral.
Which made it even more dangerous.
THE ASCENT
By noon, Stiles headed toward the mountain. The air smelled like pine sap and cold stone. The forest grew thicker as he climbed, branches closing in overhead. His boots left crisp impressions in the dirt as he followed the direction most witnesses had pointed toward.
After half an hour, he slowed down.
Tracks.Right where the tree line thickened.
He crouched, brushing his fingers over the ground.
Large impressions.Deep.Whatever made these weighed significantly more than a human.
The stride length matched too.
Werewolf.
Stiles straightened and followed the tracks deeper into the woods. The path narrowed, twisting between rocks and fallen branches, until he reached a small clearing surrounded by jagged stones.
There — near the far side of the clearing — an opening between rocks, almost invisible unless you were looking for it.
A hideout.A den.A place where something big slept, ate, or waited.
Stiles stepped closer, studying the ground:
Footprints in and out.Scratches on the rock edges — wide, long, powerful.Signs of something being dragged inside.
He exhaled slowly.
This was definitely the omega's lair.
Now came the hard part.
SETTING THE TRAPS
Stiles walked the perimeter, circling the clearing twice. He wasn't looking for the creature — not yet. He was looking for angles. High ground. Cover. Weak spots. Potential ambush points.
Everything Ronan drilled into him.
After finishing the full circle, Stiles put his backpack down and began assembling traps.
He didn't bother with non-lethal ones.Not this time.
This was a werewolf.And he was here to end the threat.
He placed:
Two snare traps reinforced with steel cable.
One collapsible spike pit (not deep, but enough to immobilize).
A tension-triggered blade trap — one of Ronan's old designs.
Silver-tipped trip darts, rigged between trees with thin trigger lines.
Each placement was careful, precise.He double-checked every angle, murmuring to himself:
"If it comes from the left, it hits the line. If it circles wide, it'll hit the snare. If it charges straight, the pit—yeah, that'll slow it."
The clearing slowly transformed into a silent, deadly maze.
By the time he finished, Stiles was sweating slightly, breath visible in the cooling mountain air.
He stepped back toward a rock outcrop — the best vantage point overlooking the lair — and settled in. He rested his back against the stone, pulled out his notebook, and flipped to a blank page.
THE WAIT
He wrote down everything:
The tracks.
The size estimate.
Behavior patterns.
Trap placements.
Environmental notes.
A projected path the omega might take.
It calmed him — the act of writing, thinking, analyzing. It gave structure to the chaos.
But even as he wrote, part of his mind drifted.
He was alone.Really alone.
If he miscalculated, there was no safety net.No Ronan stepping in last second.No sniper shot saving him.
This was a test.The biggest one of his life so far.
He closed the notebook, slid it back into his jacket, and took a long breath.
The sun dipped behind the ridge, shadows stretching long across the clearing.
Night would come soon.
And so would the omega.
Stiles gripped his knife and checked his gear one more time, pulse steady but strong.
He was ready.
Or he had to be.
He positioned himself behind the rocks, eyes locked on the lair entrance, the forest silent around him.
Waiting.
Listening.
Preparing.
The hunt would begin the moment the creature stepped out.
And Stiles did not plan on hesitating.