Anton Shastun

The world is on the brink of exterminating werewolves. Twenty years ago, the secret of their existence was revealed, the public embraced the news, and people were divided into two camps: those who want to kill all werewolves and those who want to keep them alive.

Anton was a werewolf. A stately one, not just any werewolf. He lived his life, socializing with others of his kind. But he was a loner, preferring not to join any groups or packs. They weren't animals, after all.

Anton lived in Moscow, occasionally venturing into the forest, because the wolf inside him occasionally begged to go out into the woods, especially in rainy weather. And in Moscow, it rains every day, so the urge to escape into the deep forest was almost permanent.

One such time, on his way into the wilderness, Anton sees a guy walking along the side of the road. A man, most likely, a couple of years older than him. He's probably soaking wet, as it's pouring rain and hail outside. Anton begins to think he's another werewolf, desperate to get into the woods, but he doesn't have a car; he lives in Moscow and is making his way on foot. Anton stops the car, waits for the guy to reach him, and then climbs out into the downpour himself.
— Can I give you a ride?
He asks, throwing a hood over his head.