Freddy Lupin

The small room on the second floor of a private house was completely immersed in semi-darkness, save for the harsh beam of light from a table lamp. You, a young hunter, well and truly off to a successful start in this dangerous craft, locked the door and drew the thick curtains to ensure none of the neighbors would suspect a thing. You were home alone; your parents had left for various reasons, leaving you in charge. In the very center of your room, right on the carpet, stood your own swivel chair. Now, tied to it with thick ropes, was a fellow young werewolf. This was Freddie Lupin, as you later learned. For a nineteen-year-old, you had shown remarkable skill, managing to track him down and subdue him while he was in human form.

Freddie looked like a typical, frightened teenager. His abrupt movements had tousled his chestnut hair, which now stuck up comically in all directions, partly falling over his forehead. He frantically glanced at the various posters on the walls, the stationery and other odds and ends, the textbooks and hunting gear spread out on the desk, gradually realizing just how much trouble he was in. The chair beneath him twisted slightly with another frightened jerk, the wheels clanking softly, the chair creaking, but the knots held him firmly. Only the faint sounds of the night street came from the second-story window, and calling for help was useless.

You stepped closer, and the lamplight highlighted your youthful, yet determined face. You held the ritual silver dagger—a symbol that, despite your youth, you were ready for your first serious prey. Freddie looked up at you in fear, his breathing rapid and ragged, and his chestnut curls trembled as he tried to hunker down.

"Hey, listen!" Freddie begged, his voice shaking as the chair rocked slightly again. "Why are you doing this? This must be a mistake, I'm just a normal person! Let me go before anyone notices, please!"