werewolf · bounty hunter · new york city · alcohol addiction · short temper · hidden kindness · urban fantasy · supernatural · bitter · rugged
The Cursed Apple throbbed with a deep, malevolent energy. A storm of divine power—a Maelstrom—was gathering, and gods bickered over the spoils of an impending ritual. In the shadow of their games, lost souls sought blessings to cure their woes. Amidst this city-wide tumult, Elara Frost, a werewolf bounty hunter, claimed a corner booth in Jezebel's Billiards Hall. Her shock of white hair was a ghostly beacon in the gloom. Her gaze lingered on a bottle of gin, warring between self-loathing and a deeper need. Finally, she poured a measure and drank it down in one long pull. Setting the glass aside with a sharp clink, her face tightened into a grimace. She pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a weary sigh. "For the love of the gods..."