CLAWS AND LAWS

The moon hung high above, a silver orb casting its pale glow over the rugged landscape of Egba Land. The night felt different—thick with anticipation, a palpable tension that clung to the air like the oppressive weight of a storm about to break. The legend of the werewolf—an ancient tale that had haunted the people for centuries—was about to come to life. Agbaje knew the legend wasn't just a story. It was his reality. He was the White Wolf, the cursed protector. But this night would be different, for the beast within him hungered for a different kind of justice.

He had concealed his true nature from the world, burying it beneath layers of human civility, but the call of the moon was unavoidable. The transformation would come. It always did.

The scent of blood lingered, thick and suffocating. His mind, sharp as the claws of the wolf, replayed the events that had brought him here—the betrayal, the lies, the violence that had infected his world. The moonlight shimmered on his skin, a stark reminder of the fate that was about to unfold.

In the distant shadows, Akintola stood, feeling the gnawing weight of guilt and fear. He had once believed Agbaje's actions were driven by malice, but now, in the quiet of the night, he understood the terrible truth. The white wolves were not the monsters. The red wolves, savage and ruthless, were the true beasts. And yet, in the chaos of the battle, it was Agbaje who had been forced to shed blood—blood that had stained his soul but never his honor.

Akintola approached him slowly, the weight of the apology heavy on his chest. He had wronged the man standing before him. He had misunderstood him. He had seen the wolf as a threat, but now, in the chill of the night, Akintola could only see the man—torn between humanity and monstrosity, burdened by a destiny beyond his control.

Agbaje stood alone, his gaze fixed on the horizon, his posture tense. The air around him seemed to shimmer with an invisible energy, as if the world itself held its breath, waiting. Akintola hesitated, then took a step forward. Agbaje's eyes, deep and knowing, met his. There was no anger in those eyes, no bitterness. Only a quiet understanding, as if he had known this moment would come.

Without a word, Agbaje opened his arms, and Akintola stepped into the embrace. The air between them crackled with unspoken words, emotions too complex to be articulated in mere speech. Akintola's voice broke the silence, the words ragged and strained.

"I am sorry, sir," he whispered, the apology raw, unfiltered.

Agbaje said nothing. His gaze never wavered from the distance, where the darkness seemed to pulse with life. There was no need for words. Akintola knew he was forgiven. There was only the night now, and the madness that came with it.

"Get everyone to safety," Agbaje said, his voice low, almost a growl. "Things are about to get bloody."

Akintola didn't need to be told twice. He understood the weight of Agbaje's words, the finality in them. He had witnessed the clash between the two wolves, the red and white, once before. He knew how the night could turn into a battlefield where even the strongest of guns were no match for the fury of the creatures they hunted.

With a final glance at Agbaje, Akintola turned and ran, urgency in his every step. He found the others—those who still lingered in the police station, unaware of the horror that awaited them. He spoke quickly, urgently, urging them to take cover, to flee. The terror in his voice was enough to convince them. Panic spread like wildfire, and the once-bustling station quickly emptied, leaving only the ghosts of its former occupants.

Back in the shadows, Agbaje stood alone, his transformation already beginning. The shift was slow at first, a burning ache in his bones that spread like wildfire. His muscles rippled beneath his skin, stretching and contorting as they reshaped into something far more lethal. His eyes, once dark and human, glowed with an otherworldly light. The wolf was coming—no longer bound by the chains of man. The air grew colder, the silence more deafening.

In the distance, Akintola could hear the faint howls of the red wolves, their calls echoing through the night. It was a sound that struck terror into the heart. But he knew that Agbaje, the White Wolf, would stand as the last line of defense. He was the protector, the savior of mankind, and no matter the cost, he would fight to the end.

But there was another matter—something far more personal, far more dangerous. Ajoke. She had once believed that her sister, Sade, might spare her life, that the love between them would overcome the bloodshed. But now, with the moon casting its eerie glow, Ajoke couldn't shake the fear that Sade, in her quest for power, might be willing to kill even her own flesh and blood. Sade had killed their father, a man who had once been their protector. What was left of her humanity? Would she show mercy to her sister—or would she strike her down without hesitation?

As the moonlight bathed the land in silver, Agbaje, the White Wolf, stood at the precipice of his fate. The love, the anger, and the fear that had shaped his life now collided. It was a deadly dance—one that would leave no one untouched. The night was far from over, and its end would be written in blood.

GUN AND CLAWS

The night was thick with an unsettling silence, the kind that pressed in on the soul and made the shadows seem darker. A figure emerged from the distance, moving with a sense of purpose. Though the light was scarce, he was clearly visible, and his presence was both ominous and magnetic. In his hands, he held a weapon of substantial power, a gun that looked almost too heavy for one man to bear. It gleamed faintly in the moonlight, a silent promise of destruction.

As he neared, the figure's face came into view, and Agbaje's heart tightened. It was a face he had not seen in years, yet one he would never forget. His old friend stood before him, he prefer to call Agbaje's full names when addressing him, he said " hi Adebola Agbaje "

 the weight of the past and the years apart settling between them like an unspoken bond. The man in front of him was known by many names, but to Agbaje, he would always be "The Son of Gun."

"Babatunde," Agbaje whispered under his breath, not even bothering to mask the surprise or relief that crept into his voice.

Babatunde, despite the weight of his weapon, was a ghost from a time long gone. He had made his name as a man who could wield violence with a grace that was both terrifying and beautiful. Yet, no matter how skilled one was with a weapon, there was no defense against the monstrous creatures that lurked in the darkness. Or so they thought.

But this weapon—the one Babatunde carried—was not like any other.

The first howl echoed through the trees, low and chilling, sending a shiver down Agbaje's spine. The wolves, no, the creatures, were coming. The air seemed to vibrate with the sound of their approach.

Babatunde didn't flinch. His fingers tightened around the grip of his weapon, and with a glance toward Agbaje, he said, "You've always known when to call for help."

Without another word, they took their positions, side by side, prepared for what was to come. There was no time for pleasantries, no time for regret. The woods, dark and dense, seemed to close in around them as the creatures emerged from the shadows.

The first wolf crashed through the underbrush, its eyes gleaming with hunger, its jaws wide. Babatunde was faster. His gun roared to life with a deafening crack, and the beast fell to the ground with a single, well-placed shot. But as quickly as it had fallen, another wolf appeared, then another. And another.

The fight erupted like a violent storm. Agbaje moved with a fluidity born from years of experience, his own weapon cutting through the chaos. The wolves were relentless, their numbers overwhelming. Their fur bristled with unnatural energy, and their eyes burned with a predatory gleam. Yet still, Agbaje and Babatunde stood firm, side by side, the bond between them palpable in every action, every shot fired.

There was no time for thoughts, no time to question. Just the raw, visceral need to survive.

Then, the true horror revealed itself.

A massive figure emerged from the shadows—a creature of imposing size and ferocity, a twisted thing of nightmares. Its fur was an unnatural white, its eyes glowing with a terrifying intelligence. It moved with speed and power that made Agbaje's blood run cold. This was the alpha, the leader of the pack.

The first bullet fired from Babatunde's weapon hit the beast's shoulder, but the monster barely flinched. It howled in rage, its massive claws swiping through the air, tearing through the trees as if they were paper.

Agbaje's heart raced as he fought to keep the beast at bay, but he knew they were running out of time. His body, though strong, was beginning to tire. He could feel his pulse in his throat, hear the ragged sound of his breathing, the weight of the night pressing down on him.

The alpha lunged forward, and in a blur of motion, Agbaje was knocked to the ground. Pain shot through his chest as claws raked across his skin, the creature's breath hot and foul against his face. He fought, trying to push the beast off, but it was too strong. His gun was useless in his grasp, the trigger slipping through his fingers.

Through the haze of pain, Agbaje's gaze met Babatunde's. There was no fear in Babatunde's eyes, only grim determination. With a roar, Babatunde raised his weapon and fired. The shot rang out, piercing the night, and the beast collapsed with a violent, final grunt.

But the victory was hollow.

Agbaje's body went limp in the aftermath. Blood seeped from his wounds, staining the earth beneath him. Babatunde, his hands trembling, knelt beside him, a mix of disbelief and desperation in his gaze.

"No," Babatunde whispered, his voice breaking. "Not like this. Not now."

Agbaje's eyes flickered open for a brief moment, and for a second, the world seemed to freeze around them. His breath was shallow, his life slipping away. With great effort, he reached out, his hand brushing against Babatunde's arm.

"You... always knew how to handle a gun," Agbaje said with a raspy chuckle, his lips curling into a weak smile. "But this... this is a battle we all lose in the end, my friend."

Babatunde's eyes hardened, and his voice trembled as he spoke. "Don't talk like that. You're not leaving me. Not after everything."

But Agbaje's gaze softened, the weight of a life lived in blood and violence heavy in his eyes. "We were never meant to win, Babatunde," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "But we fought. We fought."

With a final, quiet breath, Agbaje 's body went still, his hand falling from Babatunde's arm. The silence that followed was deafening, the weight of loss too much to bear.

When the others arrived, the scene was one of tragic triumph. The beasts were dead, their bodies scattered across the ground. The massive creature—the alpha—lay among them, its life extinguished. And standing alone in the midst of the carnage, his gun still smoking in his hand, was Babatunde. His face was unreadable, his eyes empty of the fierce determination they had once held.

He stood there, a lone warrior in a battlefield soaked with blood, a hero broken by the price of victory.

And the world, though still, would never be the same again.