Snow falls in thick, heavy flakes across the back parking lot, the cold settling into the concrete like a living thing. Under the harsh white of the security lights, the Unholy Wolf Brigade waits.

Theron Tkachuk stands motionless, arms folded, breath rising in slow, disciplined clouds. Arkady Bogatyr paces in tight, twitchy loops, boots scraping restless patterns into the snow. Torunn Sigurjonsson stands tall and still, posture rigid, eyes forward — a shieldmaiden awaiting her commander.

The metal door opens.

Gunnar Van Patton steps out first — black fatigues, gloves, the WrestleZone Championship slung over his shoulder like a piece of gear rather than a trophy. Snow clings to his hair and sleeves as he walks with the steady, unhurried gait of a man who has marched through far worse.

Avril Selene Kinkade follows, wrapped in a tailored wool coat, heels clicking sharply on the icy pavement. Her expression is composed, but her eyes narrow the moment she sees the three waiting figures.

Avril Selene Kinkade: “Sergeant, I must confess I remain utterly baffled as to why this… collection of heathens has been permitted entry into this country, let alone this promotion. One would think an ocean’s worth of distance would be sufficient to keep such miscreants occupied elsewhere.”

Gunnar Van Patton keeps walking, unbothered.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Weren’t their idea, Avril. It was mine.”

Arkady Bogatyr grins immediately — sharp, feral, delighted by her disdain. Torunn Sigurjonsson’s jaw tightens, eyes narrowing with cold, unblinking contempt. Theron Tkachuk simply watches, unreadable.

Gunnar Van Patton stops in front of them, snow settling on his shoulders. He looks at each of them in turn — silent, steady, commanding.

Avril Selene Kinkade: “Do not mistake my presence for approval, Sergeant. Their arrival is an unmitigated disaster waiting to happen. I have too many days and nights cleaning up after their… antics. I had hoped the Atlantic Ocean would continue to serve as a natural barrier between myself and this pack of unrefined savages.”

Gunnar Van Patton answers without looking at her.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Ain’t askin’ ya to approve.”

Avril Selene Kinkade exhales sharply — not emotional, but exasperated in the way only a highly educated woman forced to stand among wolves can be.

Avril Selene Kinkade: “Quite. I suppose expecting civility from this arrangement would be as futile as expecting table manners from a pack of starving dogs.”

Arkady Bogatyr’s grin widens. Torunn Sigurjonsson bristles. Theron Tkachuk remains still as stone.

The tension between Avril Selene Kinkade and the Brigade hangs in the frozen air — sharp, cold, and unmistakably personal.

The war council is assembled.

The snow thickens, drifting sideways in the wind. The cold bites at exposed skin, but the Brigade stands unfazed — especially Theron Tkachuk, who looks as though he’s waiting for a bus rather than standing in sub‑zero temperatures. Avril Selene Kinkade, however, is not impressed.

Avril Selene Kinkade: “Sergeant, I will remind you that I have spent years cleaning up after these heathens. Their presence has historically resulted in destruction, arrests, and enough legal paperwork to qualify as a full‑time occupation. I had hoped the Atlantic Ocean would continue to serve as a natural barrier between myself and this… pack.”

Arkady Bogatyr: “You say that like we’re not your favorite problem.”

Avril Selene Kinkade: “I assure you, Mr. Bogatyr, I do not have favorites among criminals.”

Torunn Sigurjonsson: “She talks too much.”

Avril turns her head just enough to look at Torunn down the bridge of her nose — the aristocratic equivalent of a slap.

Avril Selene Kinkade: “And you think too little. A predictable imbalance.”

Torunn steps forward — slow, heavy, deliberate. The snow crunches under her boot like bone.

Torunn Sigurjonsson: “One hand. That’s all it would take to silence you.”

Avril lifts her chin, staring up at a woman nearly twice her size. Her voice is calm, crisp, aristocratic — a scalpel, not a shout.

Avril Selene Kinkade: “My dear, if you attempt to lay a finger on me, I will have you buried beneath so many criminal charges that your grandchildren will still be appealing the verdict. I have dismantled men and women far more imposing than you without ever raising my voice, and I assure you—”

And then it happens.

Theron Tkachuk — silent, stoic, carved from northern ice — casually unzips his heavy winter coat. Not for show. Not for intimidation. Simply because he’s from Alert, Nunavut, and this weather barely registers as cold.

The coat parts, revealing the bare, sculpted torso beneath — steam rising faintly from his skin in the freezing air.

Avril Selene Kinkade’s attention turns toward him. Not drifts. Not glances. Turns. A rare, involuntary shift — the kind she never allows herself. Her breath catches. Her voice falters — a microscopic fracture in her otherwise flawless composure.

Arkady notices. He doesn’t comment. He just chuckles — low, sharp, knowing — the grin of a man who recognizes a shift in the air even if he doesn’t understand it.

Avril forces her gaze back to Torunn, furious at herself for the lapse.

Avril Selene Kinkade: “—I will… ensure you spend the remainder of your natural life in a prison cell so small you’ll have to sleep standing upright.”

Torunn mistakes the stumble for fear. Her lip curls.

Torunn Sigurjonsson: “She’s fragile. I could break her in half.”

Avril Selene Kinkade: “And yet I remain the only one here capable of functioning in civilized society. How extraordinary.”

Torunn takes another step — sharper, more dangerous. The air tightens. The snow seems to pause. Arkady’s grin widens. Avril’s posture remains perfect, but her pulse ticks once beneath her collar.

Torunn Sigurjonsson: “Keep talking, little woman. See where it gets you.”

Theron moves. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just a shift of weight — a subtle, silent repositioning that carries the gravity of a man who has never needed to raise his voice to command a room. He signs one deliberate command: FOCUS.

Theron Tkachuk: “Sergeant.”

Torunn stops mid‑step. Arkady straightens. Avril regains her full composure. The moment breaks like ice under a boot.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Good. Now we talk.”

The cold settles into a brittle quiet after the confrontation. Snow drifts sideways in the wind, catching in Gunnar Van Patton’s hair and on the shoulders of his jacket. The Brigade stands in a loose semicircle, the tension from the earlier standoff still humming in the air like static.

Gunnar is about to speak when a sharp vibration cuts through the silence.

Avril Selene Kinkade feels her phone buzz inside her coat. She retrieves it with a smooth, practiced motion — the kind that suggests she has never once fumbled anything in her life. Her expression shifts the moment she sees the notification.

Avril Selene Kinkade: “Marvelous. UTA has released another podcast episode. Mia and Mars have chosen to embarrass themselves publicly once again.”

Gunnar exhales through his nose — a low, irritated snort.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Another episode full of overdramatic bullsh*t and mistakes. ”

Avril scrolls, her lips curving into a slow, elegant, venomous smile — the kind that means someone is about to be verbally dismantled with surgical precision.

Avril Selene Kinkade: “And right on cue, they have once again mispronounced your name, and they continue to butcher mine. It is remarkable how confidently they broadcast their ignorance. One would think that after several episodes, they might consult a roster, a phonetic guide, or perhaps a functioning adult.”

Gunnar Van Patton: “Figures. They ain’t got two brain cells to rub together.”

Arkady snorts.

Arkady Bogatyr: “They mispronounce everything. Even Torunn.”

Torunn Sigurjonsson: “They’re idiots.”

Avril Selene Kinkade: “Idiots with microphones. A dangerous combination.”

She scrolls again, her tone sharpening.

Avril Selene Kinkade: “Now, their factual errors. They have decided that ‘Volk’ is a shadowy mastermind pulling strings behind the scenes. As if Gunnar would ever allow Arkady to run anything more complex than a blender.”

Arkady brightens immediately.

Arkady Bogatyr: “Volk! Mastermind! I like this.”

Avril Selene Kinkade: “For clarity: ‘Volk’ is simply Arkady’s nickname. Short for Volkolak. A folkloric werewolf figure. It is not a codename. It is not a title. It is not evidence of a conspiracy. It is a nickname. Nothing more.”

Gunnar Van Patton: “Ain’t nobody runnin’ this but me.”

Arkady Bogatyr: “Still like it.”

Avril Selene Kinkade: “Yes, well, your idiotic enthusiasm is noted.”

She scrolls again — and this time, her expression turns cold enough to freeze the air around her.

Avril Selene Kinkade: “And now we arrive at their narrative failures. They did not discuss your victory over Tyger II at all. Not a mention. Not a word. They brushed past the WrestleZone Title changing hands as though it were a weather report.”

Gunnar’s eyes harden — slow, dangerous, biblical.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Of course they did.”

Avril Selene Kinkade: “Indeed. They spent more time speculating about Arkady’s imaginary criminal empire than acknowledging the actual championship that changed hands. It is almost impressive how thoroughly they avoid accuracy.”

Gunnar Van Patton: “Sounds like Stevens told ‘em to keep quiet.”

Theron shifts slightly — a subtle movement, but enough to draw the eye. He signs a short, precise gesture: asshole.

Avril slips her phone back into her coat, her expression returning to its usual composed severity.

Avril Selene Kinkade: “They are baiting all of you. And they are doing it poorly.”

Gunnar Van Patton: “Ain’t surprised. They ain’t worth the breath it takes to correct ‘em.”

Avril folds her hands neatly in front of her, posture perfect.

Avril Selene Kinkade: “Then we shall not waste breath. We will simply ensure the truth is louder than their incompetence.”

Gunnar nods once — a small, heavy motion that carries the weight of a decision made.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Good. Then we’re done talkin’ about ‘em.”

The snow drifts. The cold deepens. The Brigade stands silent for a moment — the calm before the next shift in tone.

Avril Selene Kinkade: “Now then… shall we address the actual matter at hand.”

Avril steps slightly to the side, hands folded neatly, giving Gunnar the floor. The others straighten — even Arkady, who rarely straightens for anything.

Gunnar Van Patton: “UTA ain’t a company. It’s a battlefield. Always has been. Always will be.”

Torunn Sigurjonsson: “War.”

Gunnar Van Patton: “Damn right. And Ah ain’t blind. Ah know the numbers game when Ah see it.”

He raises a hand, counting off with slow, deliberate fingers.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Scott Stevens. The Fatu Twins. Every other coward who can’t beat me one‑on‑one. They all run in packs. They all need help. They all need bodies to hide behind.”

Arkady grins, proud.

Arkady Bogatyr: “So you brought us in to crush them.”

Gunnar Van Patton: “Ah brought you in to even the field.”

Avril’s voice cuts in — elegant, precise.

Avril Selene Kinkade: “To counterbalance the inevitable swarm of opportunists who believe they can elevate themselves by attaching to your name.”

Gunnar Van Patton: “Exactly. Ah ain’t playin’ their game. Ah’m endin’ it.”

Arkady’s grin fades. His brows knit. He shifts his weight, crossing his arms.

Arkady Bogatyr: “Then why does it feel like we are being reduced to bodyguards? We are warriors. Not… hired shields.”

Torunn snorts.

Torunn Sigurjonsson: “You complain too much.”

Arkady Bogatyr: “I do not complain. I state truth.”

Avril Selene Kinkade: “You may dress it up however you wish. It is still complaining.”

Arkady Bogatyr: “I am not—”

Gunnar cuts him off with a single raised hand — not loud, not aggressive, but absolute.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Arkady.”

Arkady stops talking immediately. Gunnar steps closer, voice dropping into that low, sermon‑like rumble that means truth is coming whether you want it or not.

Gunnar Van Patton: “You ain’t a bodyguard. You’re a weapon. A damn good one. But don’t get it twisted — you answer to me.”

Arkady bristles, shoulders tightening.

Arkady Bogatyr: “I answer to one person.”

The snow seems to pause. Torunn’s eyes flick toward him. Avril’s lips curl into the faintest, knowing smile.

Beside them, Theron fixes Arkady with a hard, unblinking stare — not a threat, not a challenge, just a silent reminder of the truth Arkady already knows.

Gunnar doesn’t blink.

Gunnar Van Patton: “And just who does that fella take his orders from?”

Arkady freezes.

Not in fear — in recognition.

In memory.

In hierarchy.

His jaw works. His breath fogs in the cold. He doesn’t answer — because he doesn’t have to. The brigade’s unseen alpha is second-in-command only to the one-eyed lycan.

Avril Selene Kinkade: “Precisely.”

Arkady lowers his gaze — not in shame, but in respect.

Arkady Bogatyr: “…Understood.”

Gunnar looks around the group, a sternness in his voice.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Anyone else wanna flap their gums or challenge just who sits atop the food chain?” 

The silence is deafening, as the other wolves shake their heads. They know the chain of command very well.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Good. Now, pay attention. Ah didn’t bring you in to guard me. Ah brought you in to make sure the playin’ field is level.”

Theron remains still, eyes sharp, posture disciplined — the quiet confirmation of a soldier who already understands. Torunn steps forward to speak, but not before cutting Avril a sharp, warning glance — the kind that snaps her out of the quiet, lingering look she’d been giving Theron. Avril straightens, composure restored in an instant.

Torunn Sigurjonsson: “We shall right the drakkar.”

Gunnar Van Patton: “Exactly. We ain’t a circus. We ain’t a comedy act. We ain’t a damn podcast. We’re the apex predators and we’re gonna thin this flock.”

He looks at each of them — Torunn’s cold fury, Arkady’s barely contained chaos, Theron’s silent discipline, Avril’s razor‑sharp intellect.

Gunnar Van Patton: “To make sure nobody — not Stevens, not the Fatus, not any coward in the back — ever stacks the deck against me again.”

Avril inclines her head, approving.

Avril Selene Kinkade: “Then we are aligned.”

The snow falls in steady sheets, the cold settling deeper as the Brigade closes in around Gunnar. The mood shifts — not tense, but focused.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Alright. Here’s the truth of it.”

He taps the WrestleZone Title on his shoulder — not with pride, but with indifference.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Ah don’t care about bein’ champion.”

Arkady tilts his head, confused.

Arkady Bogatyr: “Then why take it.”

Gunnar Van Patton: “Because it brings the right kind of people to me.”

Avril’s eyes sharpen with understanding.

Avril Selene Kinkade: “The sinful.”

Gunnar shifts the belt slightly, letting it hang like a weight rather than a prize.

Gunnar Van Patton: “UTA’s got real fighters. Real talent. Folks who earned their place and ain’t looking for chaos.”

Torunn nods once.

Torunn Sigurjonsson: “The others… unworthy.”

Gunnar Van Patton: “Exactly. The clowns. The vile. The ones who treat this place like a joke or try to incite carnage. They’re the ones Ah’m after.”

Arkady grins, satisfied.

Arkady Bogatyr: “So the belt draws them out.”

Gunnar Van Patton: “Like moths to a damn flame. They see gold, they lose their minds. Pride, greed, ego — leads ‘em right to my feet.”

Avril’s voice is smooth, almost amused.

Avril Selene Kinkade: “And then they are dealt with.”

Theron stands silent, arms folded, eyes scanning — the quiet confirmation of a soldier who already understands the mission.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Stevens brought me in to do a job, but he ain’t too keen on how Ah get things done.”

Torunn’s voice is low, almost a growl.

Torunn Sigurjonsson: “He fears judgment.”

Gunnar Van Patton: “He fears accountability. And that’s what Ah bring. Not chaos. Not destruction. Ahm shinin’ a light on the crap they let into this place.”

He steps forward, boots crunching in the snow.

Gunnar Van Patton: “It’s a dirty job, but believe you me, business is a boomin’.”

Arkady nods, energized.

Arkady Bogatyr: “Then let them come.”

Gunnar Van Patton: “Oh, they will.”

The wind sharpens as Gunnar finishes speaking, the snow swirling around the Brigade in restless spirals. No one argues. No one questions. The mission is understood.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Now, if we’re all on the same page, Ah got one final question.”

Van Patton touches the index finger and thumb of his right hand together, leaving the other 3 extended, and displays the back of his hand to the trio. All three wolves instantly do the same, bringing a smile to all of their faces.

Gunnar Van Patton: “What are we?”

Tkachuk / Bogatyr / Sigurjonsson: “WOLVES AGAINST THE WORLD!”

Gunnar nods in agreement.

Gunnar Van Patton: “Good, now get yer asses inside. We’re done freezin’ out here. Avril already made arrangements, so nobody’s gonna be makin’ an unplanned trip to the local jail.”

The Brigade moves immediately. Torunn stomps the snow from her boots. Arkady cracks his neck and follows. Theron lingers only long enough to sweep the perimeter with a final, disciplined glance before stepping in behind the others. He trades a look with Avril, which makes her shift her eyes to the ground.

Van Patton follows them soon after. 

However, Avril remains where she is, perfectly still.

Avril Selene Kinkade: “Proceed without me. My dearest apologies, I need to retrieve my briefcase from the rental vehicle.”

Gunnar gives a brief nod — not dismissive, simply trusting. The others file inside, the heavy door closing behind them.

The moment she is alone, Avril’s posture shifts. Not dramatically — just enough for the temperature around her to feel different. The elegance remains, but the softness vanishes. What’s left is calculation.

She walks toward the rental car, heels clicking with unhurried precision. She opens the back door, leans in as though searching for her bag… and then stops.

Her hand slips into her coat.

She withdraws her phone.

Her expression settles into something colder — not anger, not urgency, but a controlled gravity reserved for matters that sit above the Brigade’s awareness.

She dials.

The phone rings once.

Twice.

Someone answers.

Avril’s eyes narrow slightly. Her voice lowers to a quiet, deliberate murmur — the kind meant for one listener only, the kind that carries weight without volume.

We do not hear the words.  

We do not hear the voice on the other end.  

We only see the subtle changes: the stillness in her shoulders, the faint tightening of her jaw, the way her free hand curls around the edge of the car door.

Whatever this is, it is not routine.  

It is not trivial.  

It is not for the Brigade.

She ends the call, slips the phone back into her coat, and smooths her hair with a practiced, elegant motion. Her expression resets — composed, unreadable, immaculate.

Then she turns and walks toward the building, heels tapping in perfect rhythm, as though nothing at all had transpired.