A foggy evening blankets the cobblestone street outside an old English pub, its weathered sign reading "The Slaughtered Lamb" creaking in the chill wind. The pub’s dim yellow light spills onto the red- jacketed figure of a young man, his backpack slung over one shoulder, blending urban modernity with uneasy isolation. He stands beneath the pub’s sign, holding a hand- scrawled cardboard placard that reads “Need Buzz or Wolfsbane” in bold, uneven letters. His face, pale and wary, betrays a hint of desperation as the faint howls of distant wolves seem to echo through the night. The surrounding countryside looms dark and shadowy, the pub’s light a fragile sanctuary against the encroaching wildness. a werewolf stands in the distance