The moon was already embracing the sky, and for Doctor Jacob Hunt, that meant one thing: his shift would end soon. Gazing out one of the hospital windows, he sighed and lowered his eyes to his G-SHOCK watch, which read 7:20 p.m. With another sigh, longer this time, he looked back up at the sky.
Emergency doctors usually work twelve-hour shifts. Hunt had started his at eight in the morning; he only had forty minutes left to finish. Although it might not seem like it, doctors carry a mountain of stress in those hours. And he, despite being a veteran with twelve years in that hospital, was no exception. Luckily, he counted on his trusted nurse: Manuela Días, focused, methodical, and always ready.
From the other side of the hallway, Manuela approached with a slight smile.
"Tired, Doctor?"
"No more than you," Hunt replied between laughs.
"We got lucky. These last few hours have been quiet."
"Even if that means staring at our shoes," he joked, casting a quick glance at his watch.
"The idea doesn't bother me that much, Doctor," she said, a small grimace of happiness sliding onto her face.
"And you to..."
Hunt's voice was drowned out by the intercom:
"Dr. Hunt, incoming trauma. Unit Alpha-22 reporting animal attack. Multiple wounds. Code Red. ETA: six minutes."
In an instant, Hunt straightened up, put on his gloves, and looked at his partner.
"Alert Trauma One. Call surgery. We're going to need it."
"Okay, Doctor."
The stretcher burst through the hallway, pushed by two paramedics running with precision. The patient's moans resonated like a broken prayer.
"What do we have?" asked Hunt, without looking up.
"Male, forty years old. Attack by wild bear. Penetrating wounds to abdomen, thorax, and face. BP at 60/40. Saturating at 85% on 100% O₂. IV established. Ringer's running. Probable internal organ injury. Glasgow 10. Stable, but critical. He is conscious."
"Nursing, central line now! Respiratory, prep for intubation. Días, monitor and pressure. Bring me two units of blood."
The team was moving before he even finished speaking.
With a synchronized maneuver, they lifted the patient from the stretcher and passed him to the fixed bed in the trauma room. Fresh blood stained the sheet instantly.
"Start a second line. I need O-negative blood now."
Hunt pulled the surgical lamp closer. The white light revealed the damage without mercy: a wound that extended from the clavicle to the abdomen, deep, with torn flesh and frayed edges.
There were two things that didn't fit. The first, a slimy, transparent liquid surrounding the area.
The second, at simple glance, looked like a wound caused by a single claw, long and sharp.
But that was strange.
Bears, when attacking, leave multiple parallel lacerations, a reflection of their five claws. This, however, was a unique incision, as if a single blade—curved or natural—had torn the body with surgical force.
The cut on the face presented the same shape: clean, directed, without adjacent marks.
Hunt narrowed his eyes. The type of damage didn't fit with a conventional animal attack.
This is going to be interesting, thought Hunt. But it's unlikely he'll survive.
"Someone take a sample of the liquid," he ordered.
"Yes, Doctor," replied one of the nurses, already ready for the extraction.
"Prep me physiological saline and a sixty-milliliter syringe."
"Are you going to irrigate here?" asked Manuela, opening the sterile packets.
"We can't wait. If he has saliva from the animal in the muscles, he won't make it to the OR alive."
He introduced the syringe into the wound and pressed. A jet of saline cleaned away blood, dirt, and residue, which fell off the edges of the bed as if the floor itself were bleeding.
"Clean the edge while I check for necrotic tissue," he said, exploring with the forceps.
The patient moaned, but remained conscious. His breathing was erratic, as if fighting against his own body.
"Hold on. Almost there. If this gets infected, we lose the lung."
Then, the man snorted. With the little strength he had left, he grabbed Hunt's arm.
Hunt leaned toward him. The patient's lips trembled as they moved.
"Wolf..." he whispered.
Hunt frowned.
"What did you say?"
"Werewolf..."
"Did a wolf attack you?" the doctor repeated, glancing sideways at Manuela. She returned a doubtful expression, without words.
The patient didn't answer. His eyes rolled back, and his consciousness seemed about to give up.
"Hold on," Hunt told him firmly. "We're taking you to the OR now."
As he finished washing the wound and closing the used packets, the man let out one last moan.
"Werewolf... in the woods..." he murmured. Then, his hand fell limp to his side.
Hunt stared at him fixedly. He turned to Manuela.
"What the hell?"
She only shook her head, still paralyzed by what they had just heard.
A few minutes later, the patient was taken to the operating room. He would not survive. ….
Hunt remained for a moment leaning back looking at the floor, with bloody gloves hanging from one hand which he squeezed tighter and tighter.
While his colleagues cleaned the room, Hunt stood motionless. Death was not unusual for him; he had seen it many times. Even so, every loss hurt, like a debt medicine could not pay.
I had hope he would survive, he thought.
"Didn't your shift end half an hour ago?" asked Días, crossing her arms.
He nodded, tired. "Yes. But no one leaves without writing. And neither do you," he said, looking up.
"Then to work, Doctor," she answered with a soft smile.
He went to the medical station, opened the digital file, and began to write.
"Patient Martinez, male, 40 years old, reported animal attack. Multiple wounds. Irrigation performed. Biological sample taken. Referred to surgery. Patient presented confused speech before loss of consciousness...."
He stopped.
"Would it be too fanciful if I put it in?" he murmured.
He looked at the screen for a few seconds. Then he pressed "save."
On his way to the admission desk, Hunt passed the trauma waiting room, where two police officers and a park ranger were arguing in low voices at the door. But in that room, there were also three people who didn't fit the place.
They wore impeccable formal suits: black military-cut jackets, adapted to an executive style. Fitted trousers, polished footwear, and wrinkle-free white shirts. On the back, embroidered with metallic gray thread that barely caught the light, stood out three letters: F.Y.D. They wore no shield, no flag, no visible rank.
Upon seeing those initials, Hunt's body stopped. His breathing slowed.
He didn't know how complicated and sensitive the situation was for them to have called the F.Y.D.
Trouble, right? he thought.
In the middle of the F.Y.D. agents was Mrs. Martinez, being interrogated. She was trembling, answering cautiously. A nurse approached her to take her to a private room, where they would notify her of her husband's condition.
Seeing her, Hunt's gaze softened, and as if it were something automatic, his knuckles tensed. He kept walking, wishing not to get any more involved, and certainly not with the F.Y.D.
"I just closed the report on the animal attack patient. I'm off shift. If you need anything, I'll be outside," he notified the receptionist.
Hunt went out the side door, his coat open like a tired cape. He lit the cigarette with trembling hands. The smoke ascended while he thought about that man's last minutes.
"Doctor Hunt?" asked a voice to his right.
It was a young man of about 28, stocky, wearing a black jacket with the letters F.Y.D. embroidered. But his shirt wasn't white, it was black.
That's new, thought Hunt.
"Yes?"
"Agent Carter of the F.Y.D.," said the young man, showing a credential. It was a card with a photograph, some data, and a highlighted phrase: "Agent 21."
"Could you answer a couple of questions? You were in charge of the patient, correct?"
Hunt hesitated a moment, then nodded. "While I smoke, go ahead."
"Are you sure they were bear swipes?" he asked with a calm voice.
"Could be. Is there a problem, Agent?"
"No, Doctor. Just routine questions," replied the agent while writing in a notebook.
Hunt looked up at the sky while Carter kept asking.
"Did you notice anything strange about the wound?"
Hunt remembered the viscous liquid they had collected.
"Yes. There was a sort of viscous liquid, possibly saliva from the animal."
"And what happened to that sample?"
"We extracted it for analysis. It was going to be archived, considering the patient passed away."
"Don't do it," replied the agent with a firm tone.
"It's just that it's of no use to us if he already..."
"Just do it! Send it to be examined. But do not include the results in the report," said Carter, this time with an authoritative tone.
Hunt frowned. "Excuse me, Agent, that is illegal."
"Relax. The F.Y.D. will handle it," replied Carter, already putting away his notebook.
The doctor felt his throat go dry. His hand trembled.
"Okay, Agent."
"Did Mr. Martinez say anything?"
Carter handed him a small card with a number.
Could have been delusions, thought Hunt.
"No. He didn't say anything," he answered, without hesitating.
"Perfect. Dial that number when the results are in. Sorry for taking your time, Doctor. Have a good night."
Hunt was left alone, looking at the sky. He put the little card in his pocket.
It was indeed trouble, he thought while sighing.
He lit another cigarette.
A werewolf... how fanciful, he thought while exhaling the smoke slowly.