There are two wolves inside you.

One wants blood. The other wants peace.

You pretend it’s a battle. That they’re equals. That one can keep the other in check if you just breathe deep, stay calm, tell yourself you’re still a good person.

Cute.

But you’ve got it twisted, Ayame. The killer’s not pacing in the back of the cage. She’s already out.

Every time you bare your teeth. Every time your boot breaks bone. Every time your enemies stop moving, and something inside you smiles.

That’s her. That’s the wolf.

You just won’t admit you like it.

I’ve seen your kind before. I was your kind before. Thought I was something noble. Thought I could fight my instincts, bury the part of me that only wanted to hurt.

You know what that made me?

Weak.

So I stopped fighting. I stopped pretending. I looked in the mirror and told the other voice—the one begging for restraint, the one crying out for compassion—to shut the hell up and die.

And that’s the night El Mariachi Muerte stopped breathing.

I didn’t kill him because I hated him. I killed him because I could.

And for the first time in my wretched life… I felt alive.

You want to know how that feels, Ayame?

When the guilt’s gone. The rules don’t matter. The leash is off.

It’s freedom.

You walk around here thinking you’re some kind of purifier. That the wolf inside you is sacred, and your duty is to point it in the right direction. But here’s the truth:

Wolves don’t care about justice.

They kill what’s in front of them.

And the more you try to be human, the more you try to be better… the more you starve the only part of you that was ever real.

The wolf doesn’t want to protect you.

It wants to replace you.

I see it in your eyes. The way they glaze over when the violence starts. That flicker of something ancient, something cruel. You bury it under all that honor and righteousness—but it’s there.

And I’m going to bring it out.

Not with words. Not with sermons.

But with pain.

Because when I drop you on your neck, when your spine lights up and your ribs creak like splintered wood, you’ll hear it.

Not your heartbeat. Not the crowd.

Her.

The wolf.

The real one. The one that never left.

And she will beg you to let go.

Let go of the lies. Let go of the leash. Let go of the little girl who still thinks she can save herself.

Let her die.

So the real you can finally breathe.

And on that night, when your back is broken, when the fang pierces the flesh, and the human in you fades into nothing…

You’ll thank me.

You’ll hate me.

And you’ll feed her anyway.

Because that’s what happens when you stop pretending. That’s what happens when the weak wolf starves, and the killer feasts.

And when it’s over, and the light is gone from your eyes, remember this:

Your wolf is hungry.

Mine is satisfied.