Wisps of loose fur floated in the stale sky. Like a microscopic blizzard, they scattered wildly at the most minuscule movement of air. Wave after wave crashed through the air. A critical mass intended to accomplish a mission. No cold kiss or hot touch of temperatures made it unsuitable for their task. They found a host for germination. Flecks of dust larger than the fur follicles.

Rigid microfilaments ended in serrated hooks, bypassing a formidable battle for survival.

Whisps were a billion-count swarm visible to the naked eye. Unthinking and automated rapid-fire growth. Each cell phase exponentially increased its number at a near-impossible speed. Energy was drawn from building blocks within the host’s cells. Fur follicles are rooted downward through any transmission possible.

Direct contact, ingestion, airborne, and fomite. Each keratin-containing three parts: cuticle, cortex, and medulla. The cuticle was made up of overlapping transparent keratin cells.

Normal hair cuticles contain dead cells and are cornified. Not this wolf fur. Tendrils whipped with a sharpness that an electron microscope would be hard-pressed to see under magnification. The smoothness and shininess filled with viable cells that drew oxygen, proteins, amino acids, and sugars in complex biological conveyor belts, pulling all their supplies as fast as neurons firing along the host’s nerves. Growing. Assembling. A blueprint once read caused the host to be infiltrated, transformed, and fused into the core of the host.

The heat generated by the movement was the least of the host’s problems. The fur built in the final stage should have been the worry. Blinding pain wrecked the host’s body. Bones, muscles, tissue, nerves, cartilage, blood, and every internal system changed. No mass was added to the host, but replenishing the loss of energy became paramount, thus another vector of transmission.

In the brightly lit room, Antonio’s voice cut through the tension, commanding, “Turn it off. It’s too soon.” The camera operator stares at him, realizes. Antonio means it. He took a step back , eyes widening, as panic floods his sense. His hands shook as he shut down the equipment. fear evident in his wide eyes. Antonio faced a squad of snarling, drooling werewolves, his authoritative tone carrying over the growls. The werewolves retread to a hallway and waited. The pungent metallic tang of blood hung heavy in the air, a macabre perfume. A low growl rumbled in his throat, a counterpoint to the symphony of snarls rising from the hallway.

The cameras, which had captured the horror, were now silent witnesses to the macabre scene orchestrated by Antonio, the King of the Werewolves. He surveyed the aftermath with a cold, calculating gaze, his emotions repressed beneath a stoic facade. Michelle’s body had been dragged away, leaving an uneasy tension lingering in the air. He surveyed the carnage with cold, reptilian eyes, the flicker of a television screen catching his gaze. Images of chaos danced on the monitor – cities under siege, military choppers falling from smoke-choked skies, the faces of terrified civilians contorted in primal fear. The feral army, his shadow unleashed, had spread like wildfire, consuming everything in its path.

His sharp vision caught two people coming from the shadows beyond the cameras. Bob Schmitt, the news director, and Amy Field, the executive producer, their faces pale under the harsh fluorescent lights. Antonio smelled a cloying perfume on Amy and a sour funk emanating from Bob.

Bob, a flamboyant figure in his late fifties, wore a tailored garish suit that clashed with his loud tie. He was a walking embodiment of theatrical narcissism, embracing falsehoods, conspiracy theories, and intentionally misleading stories. His thinning, meticulously combed hair was slicked back, and his eyes, framed by extravagant glasses, reflected a mixture of arrogant confusion. He stood in the broadcasting room; his disagreeable nature was evident in the way he carried himself. As he approached Antonio, his gaze held a spark of false superiority, expecting submission from those around him. He seemed baffled at Antonio, unaware of the supernatural power the Alpha held.

Amy, a woman in her early forties, donned a sharp business suit, a subtle conservative touch that accentuated her no-nonsense demeanor. Her makeup was impeccable, hiding the deceit that lurked beneath. In her past, she earned an Emmy-nomination as a journalist. Her facade of composure cracking at the edges, clutched her designer bag like a talisman against the encroaching darkness.

As they approached Antonio, Bob’s gestures were exaggerated, his hands moving dramatically to emphasize his points. They were unaware of his true identity. Their body language exuded confidence, perhaps fueled by their own self-perceived authority. Amy, with an air of feigned empathy, approached Antonio with a seemingly warm smile, masking the vileness that lurked within.

Bob looked baffled, trying to make sense of the tragedy that had unfolded, unaware that the orchestrator of the chaos stood before him. His eyes darted around the room, landing on the bloody carpet with a gasp. His carefully combed hair stuck to his forehead, slicked with nervous sweat. His facial expressions were a mix of bewilderment and frustration as he spoke with a tone that echoed authority but lacked true understanding.

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Amy, on the other hand, approached with a poised confidence that masked the venom within. Her body language exuded power, and her eyes, hidden behind designer sunglasses, scrutinized Antonio with a mix of suspicion and arrogance. She spoke with calculated articulation, every word dripping with inflammatory intent. She stood in front of Antonio, much as a hyena does with a lion. “What a ghastly turn of events. We need to address this immediately on air. It’s a gold mine for our viewers. Was that real?”

Antonio felt the primal urge to rip them limb from limb, their arrogance a rancid aftertaste in his mouth. But a flicker of amusement, a morbid curiosity, stayed his hand. Their fear, their ignorance, was a mirror reflecting humanity’s folly, a reminder of the fragile dance between order and chaos.

“Absolutely.” Bob tried hard to not look down at the carpet of blood from Michelle’s corpse. “We’ve got a crisis on our hands. This story is going viral, and we need damage control. We spin this to our narrative that will captivate our audience. There are rumors everywhere, but we’ll spin this, don’t you worry. People eat up controversy, and we’re going to serve it to them on a silver platter.”

Bob’s theatrical gestures punctuated his words, his eyes scanning Antonio for a reaction. He shifted to denigrate him. “Unless you’re too low IQ to understand how simple it is?” Bob leaned in with an air of authority. Antonio’s eyes gleamed with hidden intensity as he remained silent, stoic figure in the face of their ignorant confidence.

“Bob, we need to control the narrative. We’ve got connections that can help us redirect the public’s attention. Controversy is our friend, and we know how to use it. We’re not here to report the news; we’re here to shape it.” Amy’s sunglasses masked any sincerity in her gaze, and her body language conveyed faux authority. He let the silence stretch, savoring the terror it etched on their faces. Bob’s eyes darted like trapped mice, his perfectly coiffed hair plastered to his forehead with nervous sweat. Amy's glasses slipping down a fraction, her eyes narrowed, calculating.

“What do you want from us?” Bob said.

“I want you to be quiet.” Antonio said with gravitas. Antonio’s jaw clenched, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous light. He let the silence stretch, savoring the fear it etched on Bob and Amy’s faces.

“We’re going to stop you.” Amy injected.

“No, you can’t.” Antonio hardly glanced at the two people he considered as unruly pets. Much like a lion tends to a baby gazelle it’s uneager to consume and has all the time in the world.

“What makes you so sure? Because you think you’re some kind of supreme being?” Bob combatively said as if he were the authoritarian expert.

“Not supreme. Superior.” Antonio finally paid attention to Bob and Amy. Bob looked annoyed. Amy seemed to mentally calculate an angle to survive the next few hours. “You want to control the narrative?” Antonio’s voice, a low rumble in the stillness. “This is my narrative, human. And you are nothing but scribblers on the margins.”

As he spoke, a hulking werewolf emerged from the shadows, its blood-soaked fur glistening under the lights. Bob whimpered, a pathetic mewling against the growl that vibrated in the room. Amy, her voice regaining its edge, snarled, “We can spin this! We can make you the hero, the savior!”

From a hallway, several werewolves emerged. Their fur was coated in blood and bits of people. They mewled to their King. Antonio looked at the pack, “Make sure no one leaves,” he ordered, and the werewolves dispersed, their primal instincts compelling obedience. Candace, ever bold, approached the cameraman from behind, who was now visibly frightened, his distress manifesting in a humiliating puddle of piss at his feet. Antonio chuckled, a sound like dry leaves rustling in the wind. “Hero? Savior? I am beyond such petty titles. I am the storm, the flood, the reckoning. You humans, with your petty games and your thirst for spectacle, are merely tinder in my path.”

His gaze flickered towards Candace, her bold eyes meeting his with a spark of defiance. “Keep these puppets entertained, my queen,” he purred. “Let them squirm in their fear, a taste of the chaos I unleash.”

“How long before the dick measuring contest begins?” she asked Antonio with a hint of sarcasm, trying to lighten the tension. Candace, a predator in her own right, her eyes gleaming with primal hunger, sauntered towards the news team, her every step a predatory promise. Bob and Amy, their faces twisted in a mix of terror and morbid fascination, watched as she approached.

“With the wolves, or the news staff? Not too long. Can you keep the measuring contest going?” Antonio replied, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

“Only if I show them mine,” Candace retorted playfully.

“Do it. I need to find out where the two are at,” Antonio responded. His tone was serious as he paused for a moment. “By the way, have you seen Nia?”

“You sent her with Marisol,” Candace replied. missing companion.

As they spoke, a feral wolf returned to the room, snarling at Candace. Undaunted, she met its fierce gaze with bright and fearless eyes, asserting her dominance. The feral wolf knelt before her, submitting to her power. It intuitively knew he did not want to fuck around and find out why she was the King’s soulmate.

“Go. I can win this contest,” Candace declared confidently.

Antonio mused, “Human culture is one of paranoia. If the ferals don’t figure it out soon enough, you are free to make them paranoid.” His words hung in the air, a reminder of the complex dynamics at play in this otherworldly situation. The camera on the tripod, its operator a quivering mess, continued to roll, capturing the macabre ballet of power and fear, a testament to the fragile dance between man and monster, between order and the howling wilderness within.

Antonio, the King of Shadows, watched it all unfold, a silent predator savoring the hunt, his heart a battleground of amusement and rage, a king in a world teetering on the precipice of oblivion. He strides to a bank of windows overlooking the city.