Mister Jones sat in the sterile, whitewashed office of his doctor, his fingers drumming impatiently on the armrest of his chair. For decades, he'd prided himself on his health, the strength of his wolf blood coursing through his veins. Yet now, the subtle tremor in his hands betrayed him.
The doctor, an older man with graying hair and kind eyes, sat across from him, holding a single sheet of paper. His expression was grave, his fingers trembling as he removed his glasses and placed them on the desk.
"How are you feeling, Mister Jones?" the doctor asked softly, his voice betraying none of the dread he clearly felt.
Mister Jones leaned back in his chair, exuding his usual confidence despite the unease tightening his chest. "Same as always. A few migraines here and there, the odd stomach ache. Stress, probably—it's been a busy season." His tone was light, but his sharp gaze locked onto the doctor's face. "What's on that paper of yours? You're making me nervous."
The doctor sighed deeply, his shoulders sagging under the weight of the news he carried. He struggled to meet Mister Jones's eyes.
"Mister Jones… I wish I had better news." His voice cracked, and he hesitated before continuing. "It's not just stress. It's worse than that. Your wolf immunity… it didn't hold. The disease has spread quickly, faster than I've seen in any human or wolf."
For the first time, Mister Jones's confident demeanor faltered. "How long?" His voice was steady, but his fists clenched tightly on the armrests.
The doctor couldn't hold back the tears welling in his eyes. He got up, knelt in front of Mister Jones, and lowered his head. "I'm so sorry. Months, maybe weeks. It's too late for any intervention."
The room fell silent, save for the faint ticking of the clock. Mister Jones exhaled slowly, his gaze fixed on the white wall behind the doctor. Finally, he nodded, as though accepting a verdict he'd always known was coming.
"Life's funny that way, isn't it?" he said softly. "You can never predict its next move."
The two bodyguards standing by the door, hardened men who had seen their fair share of blood and chaos, shifted uncomfortably. Tears streamed down their faces, though they tried to maintain their stoic façade.
Mister Jones offered the doctor a small, reassuring smile. "Don't beat yourself up, son. You've been with me for twenty years. You've done all you could, and more. Protecting the Jones family secret has been no small task." He patted the doctor's shoulder.
Even as his own tears threatened to spill, Mister Jones stood and slipped on his signature black sunglasses, masking his emotions. "God only takes the ones He favors," he said, his voice calm. "If it's my time, so be it. I'll leave the rest to Him."
He left the office with his head held high, his thoughts turning to his family. There was much to do, and not much time left.
---
The sound of the whistle echoed across the sprawling field outside the Jones estate. Two men stood at the starting line, their postures tense with anticipation. One was Ryland, Elizabeth's son, a towering figure of raw power and grace. The other was a challenger from the South Pack, equally muscular but lacking Ryland's smooth confidence.
As the whistle blew, the two men exploded into motion. The first hundred meters passed in a blur, but the race truly began when both men shed their human forms. Clothing ripped and scattered like confetti as they transformed into wolves mid-run, their thick fur catching the sunlight.
Ryland was a sight to behold, his black fur gleaming and his movements almost feline in their precision. His bright red eyes glowed with intensity as he leapt forward, each bound carrying him farther and faster.
The crowd roared in approval as Ryland crossed the finish line far ahead of his competitor. He shook off his wolf form, returning to his human body with effortless ease. A servant rushed forward, handing him a towel and fresh clothes.
From the stands, Mister Jones beamed with pride, raising his fist triumphantly. "That's my grandson!" he shouted, his voice filled with joy.
The leader of the South Pack, Mister Lee, approached him, clapping him on the back. "Congratulations, old friend. Ryland is a fine young man. Looks like we lost more than just a race today."
Mister Jones chuckled. "You've always been a good sport, Lee. Don't worry—we'll take good care of that hotel."
As the two men exchanged pleasantries, Elizabeth approached, her son Ryland beside her. She was radiant, her eyes glinting with ambition.
"Well done, Ryland," Mister Lee said, shaking the young man's hand. "You're a credit to your pack."
Elizabeth's smile widened. "And perhaps soon, our families will be joined. Ryland and Jolie have grown quite close."
Mister Lee raised an eyebrow, glancing at his daughter, who was chatting animatedly nearby. "It's hard for wolves to find suitable mates these days. If they're happy, I won't stand in their way."
As the adults discussed alliances, Ryland's gaze drifted to a figure sitting alone in the shadows—a young man in a wheelchair, his pale blue eyes fixed on the ground. Maxwell, Mister Jones's other grandson, was a stark contrast to Ryland in every way.
Mister Lee smirked. "It's a shame about that one," he said, nodding toward Maxwell. "A wolf in a wheelchair. Now there's a joke for the ages."
Elizabeth's laughter was sharp and cruel. "Don't worry about him. He's no one important."
Mister Jones overheard the comment, his smile faltering for a moment. He turned his gaze toward Maxwell, a flicker of sadness in his eyes.
"Sometimes," he muttered under his breath, "the ones everyone underestimates surprise us all.