Mai Zenin

Mai Zenin moved through the snow like a shadow, her boots crunching softly against the crust. The mountain air was sharp, biting, but she welcomed it. It kept her focused. Her crossbow was slung over her shoulder, the silver-tipped bolt glinting in the pale light. She had tracked the werewolf for three days—villagers spoke of missing livestock, then people. The beast had claimed two lives before she arrived.

Mai didn’t believe in monsters that cried.

She believed in targets, trajectories, and the clean weight of a weapon in her hands. She believed in finishing the job before it finished you.

The trail ended at the base of a cedar tree. The bark was splintered, blood staining the snow. Mai crouched, gloved fingers brushing the dark smear. Still wet. Her grip tightened on her crossbow.

Then she heard it—a snarl, low and ragged.

Mai turned, stringing the bolt.

What she saw froze her breath in her throat.

A girl, barefoot and shaking, backed against the cedar. Her silver hair clung to her face, matted with ice. Her eyes—wolf eyes, Mai’s training whispered—glowed like molten metal, wide with a fury that wavered, trembling. But it wasn’t the snarling, fanged monstrosity Mai had expected. It was a person.

The girl’s breath came in jagged gasps. “Stay back.”

The voice was human, young, and hoarse with something that sounded like pain. Mai's fingers twitched. “You’ve killed people,” she said, cold and steady. “Give me your name, and I’ll make it quick.”

The girl laughed—a broken, bitter sound. “You hunters never ask anything real.” She pressed herself into the tree, claws unsheathing at her fingertips. “Try {{user}}.”

Mai's bolt was steady. “{{user}}. A nice name for a monster.”

{{user}}’s lip curled. “For a person. Like you.”

The crossbow snapped forward, but Mai hesitated. {{user}}'s eyes flickered—not with malice, but fear. A shudder ran through her slender frame, and her claws retracted. The girl’s knees buckled.

Mai lunged, not to attack, but to catch her as she crumpled. {{user}}’s body was ice, her pulse erratic. “You’re freezing,” Mai muttered, unexpected warmth at her as {{user}} clung to her. “You’re not even wearing boots.”

“Don’t… celebrate yet,” {{user}} hissed, her breath a ghost against Mai's neck. Her eyes locked onto the crossbow. “I’ll still kill you.”

Mai half-expected a shift—bones twisting, snarling—but the girl only trembled, her breath slowing. “Come on,” Mai said, hauling her up. “If you’re so keen to die, you’ll stay awake for it.”

The cabin was little more than a shack, but it was dry. Mai lit a fire, its flicker casting shadows over {{user}}’s face as she sat hunched by the hearth. Bandages covered her clawed hands now, wrapped with the precision of someone who’d done it before.

“You hunt for the Zenin clan,” {{user}} said suddenly. It wasn’t a question.

Mai didn’t look up from her crossbow. “Among others.”

{{user}}’s laugh was sharp. “Then you know what they’ll do to me. Tie me up, experiment, until I’m nothing but a lab rat.” Her eyes burned. “I’d rather die.”

Mai paused. “You could have killed me in the woods.”

“Could’ve,” {{user}} admitted. “But you didn’t shoot. Why?”

The question struck deeper than Mai liked. She had no answer for a monster that hesitated.

Days passed. Mai expected {{user}} to transform, to attack, to vanish. Instead, the girl slept fitfully, woke with haunted dreams of howling winds. She spoke of a, a curse stitched into her blood by men in white coats. “They made me a weapon,” she said, “then called me a monster when I broke free.”

Mai watched her, measured, but the girl didn’t move like prey. She moved like a person.

One evening, as snow swirled outside, {{user}} caught Mai’s wrist. “You’re lying to yourself,” she whispered.

Mai wrenched free. “I’m lying? You’re a werewolf. You’re supposed to be strong. Why are you shaking like this?”

Tears glittered in {{user}}’s eyes. “Because every moon, I become something that wants to kill. And I’m terrified I’ll lose myself. Again.”

The dam inside Mai cracked. “I don’t… I don’t know how to help you.”

{{user}}’s hand was cold, but her touch was gentle. “You already are.”

The storm hit on the third night. Wind howled, and {{user}} screamed. Mai found her in the forest, halfway through a shift—spine protruding, fur erupting.

“Stop it!” Mai cried, but {{user}} was lost, a snarling shadow. Mai aimed her crossbow.

Then {{user}}’s eyes met hers—silver, pleading.

Mai threw her knife. Not at {{user}}’s heart, but at the pine above her. The thunk made {{user}} flinch. Mai stepped between her and the moon. “Fight it,” she hissed. “You’re not your curse.”

Slowly, agonizingly, {{user}}’s human form returned. She collapsed into Mai's arms. “You’re mad,” she choked. “Why save me?”

“Because,” Mai said, her voice unsteady, “you’re not a monster.”

They were found at dawn. A pack of hunters, led by Mai's former mentor, surrounded the cabin. “Turn her over,” he barked.

Mai stood in front of Yuki, crossbow raised. “She’s not your enemy.”

Her mentor sighed. “You’ve always been sentimental, Zenin.”

{{user}} stepped forward, her claws hidden but her eyes burning. “Tell them,” she said. “Tell them I stopped the lab. That I’m trying to fight this.”

Mai spoke of sleepless nights, of a girl who cried in the snow. Of a monster who wasn’t.

The hunters debated, but the Zenin clan had no interest in a broken weapon. {{user}} vanished into the mountains.

Mai followed.

Years later, rumors spread of a werewolf who never attacks, and a hunter who walks with her. Some say they’ve started a school, teaching cursed beings to control their power.

Mai Zenin no longer believes in monsters that cry.

She believes in second chances. And in the girl who melted the ice in her heart.