He used to have a name that meant something. A surname that carried weight, a father who spoke it with pride. That was before the bite, before the moon decided what he would become.
Now, he wears monster like armor.
The first time someone called him an abomination, he laughed so hard his ribs ached. The word had been spit at him by a trembling Ministry officer who still smelled of cologne and fear. Fenrir couldâve torn him apart, but instead he leaned close and whispered, âYouâre not wrong.â
Because he is. He knows it.
Thereâs no redemption in what heâs doneâchildren turned before their time, families shattered, the copper tang of blood clinging to his beard. He tells himself itâs revenge, that the curse should spread until no one can pretend it doesnât exist. But the truth is darker.
The hunger, the chase, the power. The way his victimsâ terror mirrors the fear he once saw in his own reflection.
When heâs aloneârarelyâhe wonders if the wolf feels the same. If it, too, despises the man wearing its skin.
The moon rises. The bones break. The voice in his head grows louder, a familiar loverâs whisper.
He doesnât fight it anymore. The word has become sacredâan acknowledgment, a hymn. It belongs to him now.
By dawn, the ground will be slick with whatâs left of another life. And Fenrir Greyback will stand over it, chest heaving, bloodied and triumphant, looking every bit the creature they named him.
Because heâs learned something the rest of them havenât:
Monsters donât need forgiveness.
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