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A storm black wolf padded through the back streets stopping occasionally to pick at what food it could find. It was skinny and its fur was matted from neglect but somehow it was able to survive where others could not. There was once a time when it would run with it's pack in the wilds of the upper northern parts of the state, but then it happened when they all lest expected it to happen.

Death from above, from ones who feared what they could do, to farm animals, children and pets. So they came from above, with guns. Raining down bullets and the smell of blood, hate and gunpowder. It was the last of the pack somehow able to slip away from the blood sport that took the others. It traveled to the one place where the humans wouldn't expect to see one of its kind. Pecking out a living in the streets, fighting dogs for the scraps of meat tossed out by the butchers. Its eyes burned for revenge for its kin, but to get it would mean it would have to hunt down the humans that did what they did to its pack so many years ago.

The wolf thought back to the time when it happened, it could barely remember the smell of humans fear wafting down with each bullet they shot. Suddenly the scent became stronger as a drunken human stumbled past, mindlessly kicking out at the wolf. The wolf snarled but made no move to go after its prey, not yet. The man fell sideways into a pile of trash, half falling into a broken chair, he leaned over to puke splattering the already dirty street with his bile. The wolf padded closer, growling as it came, bearing its fangs feeling the hatred for this creature. It leaped catching the man by the trout and tore him out of the broken chair and ate well that night. Only to wonder if it would find the others from that dark day again.