CLAIRE
I started with the books I once promised myself I would never touch again.
They sat packed away in a storage box beneath my desk, notebooks and printed papers I had carried through med school and early residency before deciding some doors were better left closed. I pulled the box out anyway and spread the contents across the table, dust clinging to the covers as if they resented being disturbed. These were not fantasies or careless theories scribbled in margins. They were early attempts at understanding systems medicine had no language for, questions I stopped asking because they came with consequences.
I opened the first notebook and began reading.
Werewolf biology did not exist in any accepted medical database, which meant everything had to start from observation and
