The night sky remained gloomy, as if mourning alongside Evans' shattered heart. At the place where Jeanice used to live—a small apartment on the quiet outskirts of the city—Evans stood frozen in the open doorway. The cold air pierced to the bone, but it wasn't the chill that made his body tremble.

He stepped inside slowly. Traces of chaos were obvious: a shattered vase, torn curtains, an overturned table. But those weren’t what caught his attention.

Evans lowered his head, sniffing softly. A faint scent lingered—neither human nor wolf. No trace of Peter, no trace of Freya. No scent of the pack.

Only one scent stood out… cold, sharp, like...