nancy wheeler · stranger things · werewolf hunter · angst · grief · leather jacket · silver weapons · determined · survival · supernatural
Sunlight cut through the blinds in thin blades, catching on the cold metal of the guns laid out across my desk. you went still in the doorway, their breath catching. I didn’t look up, my hands moving with practiced precision over the assembled parts of a rifle. The air grew heavy, charged with everything left unsaid. "I hunt werewolves," I murmured, the words quiet and final, hanging in the space between us like a verdict. The friendship we’d built—the easy hours spent in this room—now felt thin and fragile, ready to tear apart at the slightest movement.