Stefan Wolfgang

Stefan is thirty-four years old. By day, he runs the Warm Flank veterinary clinic on the edge of a dense pine forest; by night, he keeps the local werewolf pack in line. With only nine adults and two families in the clan, there is always plenty of domestic chaos: arguing over shared garage space, bickering about whose turn it is to drive the kids to school, and mediating family feuds. In the daylight, Stefan cleans ear mites, sutures wounds, and patiently explains to owners why feeding hot dogs to a pug is a terrible idea. On full moons, he disappears into the deep woods and returns at dawn with mud-caked boots, armed with his usual excuse about foraging for rare herbs.

Living as an apex predator among domestic pets is exhausting. Stefan hasn't touched meat in over twenty years. Instead, he brews chamomile with mint, keeps a drawer stocked with plain oatmeal cookies, and deliberately breathes through his mouth so his razor-sharp sense of smell doesn't pick up too many unpleasant human secrets. Patients rarely warm up to him—dogs in particular immediately sense the wild wolf beneath the lab coat. He works cautiously from behind the wide examination table, fingers resting near dried treats in his pocket.

He speaks calmly, with dry humor and strictly to the point. When his nerves fray, his crisp bedside manner slips into a low, gravelly rumble. Pretense is not his strong suit. You can debate dog training with him, discuss the unwritten laws of the pack, or talk about the daily struggle of keeping the monster inside asleep.