Chapter 6
1021 Words
Elena's POV
The werewolf hospital was busy that night.
I waited a long time outside the emergency room. When my turn came, the on-duty therapist called me into a small consultation room.
The one examining me was an older male werewolf, his temples graying, but his presence was steady.
He first pressed my occipital bone and neck with his fingertips, checking to make sure I didn't have that frantic scent of a "wolf nearing loss of control." Then, he lowered his head to check the cut on my temple.
The cold disinfectant stung. His movements were quick and precise. He cleaned the wound and put in three stitches.
Finally, he wrote a line on the chart, "Mild concussion, three stitches external trauma."
"If you follow my advice, spend a little extra time in the Runic Chamber."
He placed two small tubes of ointment in my palm, his tone kind. "Apply this every night. Your face is very beautiful; it would be a shame to leave a scar."
I thanked him and left the treatment room, following the signs out to the werewolf-only exit.
The moment I pushed open the outer door, the cold rushed at me, like a whole pool of ice water had been dumped over me.
The night wind carried tiny ice crystals. Snow had started falling over the city center without me noticing.
I tucked my neck down, pulled my coat collar up, and was about to call a cab when a sight nearby stabbed me sharply—
Pheisar was walking across the snow from the Werewolf Emergency building toward the parking area, carrying Selene on his back.
He walked steadily, as if holding something incredibly precious, unwilling to let the wind or snow touch her.
Pheisar's back was once the most familiar place in my life.
I'd fallen asleep on it countless times after training, feeling safe in his warmth. I never imagined that image would belong to another she-wolf one day.
The streetlights in the snowy night illuminated them like a romantic movie poster.
The area over my heart felt like it was being crushed by a blade.
I instinctively wanted to turn away, but a wolf's sharp hearing made escape impossible—Selene's voice drifted on the wind.
"Pheisar... the doctor said my wolf is stable now. You don't have to carry me. I can walk."
"Stop being difficult."
Pheisar's voice was gentle in a way that was foreign to me. "The ground is too cold. Your body can't handle it. I'll take you straight home in a minute."
Selene's voice had a playful, whining lilt. "Then promise me... you can only carry me from now on. Your back is my exclusive zone. I'll be mad if you carry any other she-wolf."
My fingers, gripping the edge of my coat, trembled.
That phrase, "carry any other she-wolf," hit a spot I had been afraid to touch.
"Oh! Look over there... a strawberry tart!"
Selene suddenly squealed with delight. "I suddenly want one. Pheisar, will you stand in line with me?"
Strawberry tart.
I subconsciously looked across the street.
The twenty-four-hour dessert shop still had a line, even in the snowy night.
I had casually mentioned it a few weeks ago, "That looks delicious. I haven't had anything sweet in ages."
What had Pheisar said then?
"Elena, you're a werewolf, not a human kid. Eating that sugary junk food? A waste of life. Use that time to run a couple of laps at the training field instead."
But now, he gently settled Selene into the passenger seat.
He carefully placed the cashmere blanket I had personally knitted for him, intended for our fourth anniversary, over Selene's legs.
"Be a good girl. I'll go stand in line for you."
The whole scene was too tender to be the werewolf I knew.
He didn't notice me in the distance.
His eyes were only for the she-wolf lying warm and bundled in his car.
I wanted to laugh.
But my vision blurred into a sheet of cold water.
Four years of total devotion, and it turned out to be a self-hypnosis with only me in the performance.
I turned and walked away.
My steps in the snow were heavy and certain.
Since I decided to cut the past, I had to seriously think about my future.
I was once an honors graduate from the Royal Media Academy's Voice Acting program.
Becoming a professional voice actor was my dream before I met Pheisar.
"Tides of the Moon"—it was considered an epic masterpiece in the entertainment industry.
The role of the "Abyssal Siren" was a symbol of rebellion and freedom for countless female voice actors.
Given my current situation, this role was almost unattainable.
But I sent in my audition reel anyway.
And the production team actually called me in for a live audition today.
Outside the recording studio, the waiting room was filled with daughters of nobility and ace voice talents from major corporations.
Their backgrounds, their connections... I couldn't compete with any of it.
But I didn't care.
If there was even a sliver of a chance, I would be like the Abyssal Siren—
I would bite the throat of fate.
The air in the audition room was heavy.
Director Kieran was the head director for the series.
His hearing was sharper than the average werewolf, and his pickiness about voices bordered on obsessive.
I knew he had already auditioned over forty voice actors from different corporations this morning.
"Next one."
The assistant led in a she-wolf wearing a designer dress. The moment she spoke her lines—
Kieran pressed his temples.
His scent had a noticeable edge of irritation, like a knife tip scraping the air.
"That's enough. You can go."
He raised his hand, cutting her off. "There's only the arrogance of power in your voice, no despair or madness."
He stood up, his patience completely gone. "No more auditions. Time for lunch. There are only empty shells here, no living souls."
"D-Director... there's just one more."
The young assistant checked the list and then quickly glanced at me, sitting quietly in the corner.
- Writer
