Maxwell lay motionless in the dirt, his body trembling. His white fur, usually so proud and strong, was matted with blood. He had been left to die. He couldn't fight back. Not anymore. Not like this.
Reynald's voice echoed in his mind: "You'll never be one of us, Maxwell. You're weak."
The words burned, but they weren't what hurt the most. It was the pain in his back, the crushing weight of his broken bones, and the coldness creeping in as his breath grew shallow. He could feel himself slipping. He had always been different, a wolf who couldn't shift, unable to fully embrace his nature. And now, at the end of it all, his body finally betrayed him. He could feel his wolf form—his last resort—pulling free. But it wasn't a choice. Werewolves only shifted when they were close to death.
"Just let go," he whispered, the words barely audible. "I can't take it anymore."
He closed his eyes, fighting against the overwhelming wave of darkness, but he didn't want to die alone like this. The fear was too much.
Zoelle had no idea what she was about to find. She was riding her scooter, heading home after a long day of work at the clinic. As she sped down the empty road, a flash of white caught her eye. She slowed, squinting into the fading light.
"What's that?" she muttered, pulling over to the side.
She parked the scooter and walked toward the figure. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw it—a massive white wolf, bleeding and motionless. Zoelle's breath caught in her throat as she crouched beside it. The wolf was in bad shape, its body twisted at odd angles, its fur drenched in blood.
"Hey, can you hear me?" Zoelle called gently, her hands trembling as she reached for the wolf's body. There was no response. The wolf was barely breathing, but there was a faint pulse beneath its fur.
She felt a pang of panic.
"Come on, stay with me," she whispered, desperately. "I'm not going to leave you."
Zoelle bit her lip, scanning the area. There was no sign of anyone around, no indication of what had happened. All she knew was that she couldn't just leave this poor creature here. Her heart pounded in her chest as she glanced at the road. It was empty, quiet.
Her mind raced. She had to get this wolf to the clinic.
The wolf's breath was weak, and Zoelle knew it wouldn't survive much longer unless she acted fast. With a deep breath, she knelt beside it, preparing to move the heavy creature.
"Alright, buddy, let's get you out of here," she muttered, trying to calm herself. She slid her arms under the wolf's body, struggling to lift it. The wolf whimpered, its body trembling with pain.
"Hey, hey, it's okay," Zoelle said softly, even though she wasn't sure if the wolf could hear her. "I'm not going to hurt you. We're going to get you help."
With a grunt, Zoelle managed to hoist the front half of the wolf's body onto her scooter, but she could feel every ounce of its weight. It was exhausting, but she couldn't stop.
"Please, just a little more," she whispered, shifting the wolf's back end onto the seat.
The wolf let out a weak whine, but Zoelle kept going, her fingers digging into its fur as she worked to steady it. She knew she had no time to waste. The clinic was close, but not close enough. Every second felt like an eternity.
"Hold on," Zoelle murmured, her voice strained. "Stay with me. I'm almost there."
She revved the scooter and sped down the road, weaving through the trees as quickly as she could, praying that she wasn't too late.
When she arrived at the clinic, the sun had already set. The streets were empty, and the world around her felt eerily silent. She barely noticed as she parked the scooter and gently lifted the wolf off. Her hands were shaking, but she was determined.
"Please, you've got to stay with me," Zoelle muttered, her voice breaking as she carried the wolf inside, his body limp and unresponsive.
Inside the clinic, she laid the wolf on the operating table, the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights overhead the only sound. Zoelle quickly moved to assess the injuries. Blood was everywhere—soaked into the wolf's fur, staining the table beneath it.
As Zoelle carefully examined the wolf, she realized how severe the injuries were. Its spine was twisted, and there were signs of broken ribs. She froze for a moment, feeling her heart race in her chest.
"Shit, this is bad," she muttered under her breath.
The wolf let out a low whimper, and Zoelle was jolted out of her thoughts. It was alive—barely.
"Okay, okay," she said, her hands moving quickly as she prepped the room. "I'm going to fix you. Just hang in there."
She worked fast, her mind focused. The wolf's back was in terrible shape. There was no time to waste. Zoelle carefully aligned the spine as best as she could, stitching the wound closed with precision. Her hands trembled as she worked, but she didn't stop. She couldn't.
"Come on, Snow," Zoelle murmured, using the name that had come to her instinctively when she'd seen the wolf's fur. "You're going to make it. I won't let you die."
The wolf's body trembled, but it didn't fight her. It was weak, exhausted, and on the brink of death. Zoelle worked faster, determined to save it.
She couldn't explain why she was so desperate to help this wolf—why she had risked everything to save it. All she knew was that she couldn't let it die.
After what seemed like hours, Zoelle finally finished the surgery. She wiped her forehead, exhaustion settling over her.
"You're going to be okay," Zoelle whispered, brushing a lock of hair from her face. She stood there for a moment, watching the wolf's labored breathing. "You have to be."