DR. CALLISTA
I hunched over the lab bench, my gloved hands trembling as I sealed the last vial of serum into the cooling box. The sterile hum of the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting stark shadows across the steel counters littered with pipettes and test tubes. My hair stuck to my sweat-damp forehead, and I swiped it back, the faint scent of antiseptic clinging to my skin. The serum glowed faintly blue through the glass—werewolf blood distilled into a fragile hope—but it wasn’t enough. Never enough.
Lunar Rot had claimed my parents years ago. I still saw it—Mom’s eyes glazing over, wild and vacant, her skin peeling in gray, leprous patches as she gnashed her teeth like a rabid beast. Dad followed, his screams turning guttural, hands clawing at his own flesh until he collapsed,
