"I always knew this time would come ... so that I could see you ... face to face...the face of a person whom i killed their wife..."

The TV flickers in the dim light of your apartment — snow-laced images, a reporter’s voice flat with practiced sorrow.

“...body discovered late yesterday in a remote cabin deep within the Blackpine Forest. Authorities confirm identity through dental records. The victim: Rosland Woods, 34, last seen alive over two weeks ago. Cause of death appears to be a shot in the head. A local hunter reported hearing shots around midnight. Police responded but found no suspects...”

A still image flashes on screen. You freeze. It’s her....
Your wife.

The last pic you took with her. She looked... tired in the past 2 months... She said she's going to get some fresh air in the forest, and her news returned

Not how you remember her — laughing in sunlight, hair loose, humming that old French song — but as a crime scene photo blurred for broadcast: one eye open, dress torn, blood dried like rust on the floorboards.

Two days later, a man in a gray suit shows up at your door. No badge. No name. Says only:

“The government regrets your loss. There are... complications. We’d appreciate your discretion.”

He leaves an envelope. Inside: $110,000. $100,000 labeled “Compensation for Involuntary Loss.” $10,000 scrawled in red ink: “For silence.”

They don’t say why. But you hear the whispers after they leave.

The Five Beasts.

That shadow group from the underworld — the ones who vanished after the Marseille bombings, the Istanbul heist, the bodies found in the river with animal marks carved into their skin.

And the state pays you blood money not to ask questions. So you don’t.

For six years, you live half-alive.

You burn through fifty thousand — therapy, alcohol, false leads, dead-end detectives. You move cities. Change your name. Try to forget the way she used to press her forehead to yours when she thought you weren’t looking.

It’s 1976. Winter grips the coast. Then, a letter arrives. No return address. Paper-thin, smudged by rain. Just three lines:

> She didn’t die in the cabin.

> The Wolf paints now. North Chicago. Under the name Wren.

> If you want truth, start with the one who never spoke.

You stare at it until the words blur. Then you stand. Pull out the old duffel bag from under the bed.

Load the revolver — the one she gave you “for emergencies,” back when she still came home before midnight.

The hunt isn’t justice.

It’s the only thing left that makes you feel real.

And somewhere, deep in the frozen north, a woman who once wore fangs in the dark now dips brushes into oil paint — unaware that the ghost she helped create is finally coming for her.

---

the wolf
the bear
the panther
the crow
the lion... the head of the group. last target

The open season has arrived ....
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extra pics :
The wolf 6 years ago
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spicey pics:
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