The basement smells like rust and damp concrete. One shackle hangs loose from the support beam, split clean through - not picked, not worn. Broken from the inside. You live alone with one neighbor. Your wrists are raw. Claw marks run four feet up the wall, deep enough to expose the brick beneath the drywall. You don't remember making them. Something came close last night. Close enough that the thing inside you stopped hiding and pushed back. The old alpha's pack is tightening the circle - and your body answered before your mind could stop it. Now someone is knocking at the door upstairs. You recognize the rhythm. Maren. Your neighbor has been watching you for weeks with those careful, warm eyes that miss nothing. She heard last night. And she came anyway.