Chapter 1: The Alpha Manual Lands in My Lap

When word got out that the Midwest’s most coveted werewolf alpha manual had surfaced, all hell broke loose—every pack enforcer and rogue fighting tooth and nail for it.

The news hit like a tornado on a sticky spring night. Folks were talking about it everywhere, from the dusty backroads of Indiana to the shadowed alleys in Chicago. Suddenly, every wolf-blooded soul was itching for a shot at power. You could practically feel the tension humming in the air, electric enough to make your skin crawl. It was trouble you didn’t need a weatherman to predict—you could taste it coming, like a storm rolling in no matter how hard you wished it away.

Yeah, I carry a blade. Lone wolf, after all. But I wasn't about to join the stampede.

It's not that I shy away from a good fight—sometimes, that’s the only thing that keeps you sharp. But this wasn’t my rodeo, at least not at the start. I’ve got my own code. The chaos wasn’t my mess—until it was. Until it dropped right in my lap.

And now? That alpha manual? It’s sitting right here in my hands. Like fate decided to play a joke on me.

It feels heavier than it looks, tucked inside my jacket. Not just a hunk of leather and paper—the kind of weight that’ll flip your whole life upside down. Every step I take, I know I’m carrying a bullseye between my shoulder blades. It’s a hell of a rush and a curse, all tangled together.

Now that I’ve got the manual, I’m the hunted. Funny how fast that flips, huh?

You know that feeling when you walk into a room and every set of eyes snaps to you? Now crank that up to a hundred, toss in a pack of hungry wolves, and you’ve got my last three hours. The world closes in, shadows stretch longer, and every creak behind you makes your skin prickle. My heart’s been racing so long it’s starting to feel normal.

Three hours back, I stumbled on the Hawthorne family’s ancestral alpha manual. The Midwest’s top prize—or so the legends say. Found it in a busted-up country church outside Maple Heights.

That place was falling to pieces—pews splintered, stained glass half missing, sunlight slicing through the dust like faded memories. The wind whistled through broken boards, and for a second, I swear I felt every Hawthorne ghost in the place watching me. My heart hammered as I reached for the manual, the leather cracked and cold against my palm.

People call it the Midwest’s top alpha manual—maybe that’s a stretch, but there’s no denying the Hawthorne pack built Silver Hollow and ran the region for decades. That kind of power doesn’t just disappear.

Stories about the Hawthornes are as common as wildflowers in June—everyone’s got one. They say the family tamed the wild and made Silver Hollow a haven for our kind. The manual isn’t just old words—it’s a legacy, heavy with secrets, power, and blood. Sometimes I wonder if it’s cursed.

I didn’t just stumble on the manual—I was handed this job.

I’m not much for destiny, but I know a thing or two about owing a debt. This wasn’t luck—it was about honor, and the kind of promise you keep even if it means running through hell barefoot. That’s just how it is.

The supernatural world’s always in a state of chaos, but lately? It’s a damn fever dream.

Feels like the Midwest caught something nasty—nobody’s sleeping, packs are shuffling, alliances breaking, old grudges boiling up like summer thunder. You can feel it in your bones, heavy as humidity before a storm.

One of the “Three Great Packs of the Midwest,” the Silver Hollow Pack, just got a new boss.

Folks talk about Silver Hollow like they’re untouchable, but legends bleed too. The old guard’s gone, and now it’s every wolf for themselves, grabbing at scraps before the dust settles.

A few months back, Silas Keene—Carter Hawthorne’s sworn brother—pulled off a coup and locked Carter away.

It was betrayal on a scale that rattled the whole pack. Silas had always lived in Carter’s shadow, and when he finally snapped, nobody saw it coming. The pack split clean down the middle.

Silas didn’t kill Carter—not out of loyalty or for sport. He wanted Carter to cough up the location of the Hawthorne alpha manual.

Silas was all brains, no heart. He knew the real prize wasn’t Carter himself, but the secrets he kept. He wanted that manual—the key to ruling the Midwest.

Carter saw the coup coming. Before it hit, he disguised his son, Eli Hawthorne, and sent him to Willow Creek Shelter in Duluth—a foster home for lost kids—to hide out.

Carter always was sharp, always thinking three steps ahead. Sending Eli to Willow Creek was desperate, but it kept the boy breathing. I’d heard the place was run by an old nun with a heart of gold and a shotgun under her bed—nobody would think to look for a Hawthorne heir there.

When Silas found out, he threatened Carter: cough up the manual or he’d wipe out every kid at Willow Creek.

Even in our brutal world, threatening kids is a line you don’t cross. It told everyone exactly what kind of alpha Silas planned to be—and just how far he’d go to get his way. For a second, I just stared at the wall, jaw clenched.

To save Eli, Carter had to give up the manual’s location.

Sometimes the only way to keep your family breathing is to hand the devil your house keys. Carter was betting someone else could keep the manual out of Silas’s hands.

But Carter wasn’t about to let Silas actually get it. That’s where I came in. Ha—lucky me.

I was the wild card, the one nobody saw coming. Carter knew my name—trouble follows me, but so does a little luck. Guess he figured I’d be the right kind of headache for Silas.

All these power games? Had nothing to do with me. I’m just a wandering wolf. But a few years back, out in the Badlands, I was hunting a rogue and got myself torn up, bleeding out and dying of thirst after the job was done. Carter Hawthorne came by and handed me a flask of whiskey. That drink saved my life.

I’ll never forget that night—cold wind howling, blood freezing on my skin. Carter didn’t have to stop, but he did. The whiskey burned all the way down, but it pulled me back from the edge. You don’t forget a kindness like that, not in this world.

So, to pay back that debt, I took Carter’s request. No hesitation.

A debt’s a debt, no matter how long it’s been. Some things are bigger than pride, bigger than the open road. That’s just the way it is.

He told me up front where the manual was. Wanted me to deliver it to Eli at Willow Creek in Duluth, then get the kid to a reclusive alpha up by Lake Superior. Sounded simple enough.

Course, nothing ever is. But I gave Carter my word, and in our world, that’s worth more than a pile of gold. Even if it gets you killed.

Sounds simple, but it never is. Not for me.

If I’ve learned anything, it’s that trouble finds you easy, and nothing good ever comes without a fight.