Page 149 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

Before last night, it was a curiosity. A footnote in a sports article about a captain and his mysterious foster brother.

Now it's a forensic exhibit.

The comments have tripled since the game. People are dissecting the photo with new eyes, comparing teenage Wraith to the footage of him unmasked, arguing about whether Wraith is his real name, the timeline of his injuries, speculating about who did it and when and why was he already wearing the mask as a teenager, what happened to his face, someone find the police report⁠—

Strangers building a case file out of a boy who just wanted to turn away from the camera.

There are more threads and posts about Wraith. Many more.

The comments are... not what I expected.

The top responses are the usual garbage. Monster. Freak. Ban him. Muzzle him. Disgusting. Nightmare fuel.

But further down…

honestly he's kind of hot in a terrifying way???

the way he protected his omega though. THAT is an alpha.

unpopular opinion but wraith could get it

HIS EYES. have you SEEN his eyes. the face doesn't matter when the eyes are like THAT. so pretty omg

monsterfucker solidarity we ride at dawn

I blink.

Read them again.

Whiskey watches my reaction with barely contained glee. "Told you the monsterfucker thing was real."

"I didn't doubt you. I doubted the scale."

"Bro, there's fan art already. Not just the horny stuff." He scrolls to an illustration of Wraith in his jersey, eyes blazing blue. The artist didn't shy away from the detail of his disfigurement.

But he looks… noble.

"Don't show him," I say again, though this time my voice has less edge to it.

"Obviously not now." Whiskey pockets his phone. "But eventually, right? He should know not everyone thinks he's…" He trails off, gesturing vaguely.

"Yes," I mutter. "Eventually."

Whiskey stretches his arms above his head with a groan, his shirt riding up to expose a strip of padded stomach. I catch Plague's eyes locking on and snort. Whiskey doesn't notice. "Man, this waiting shit is killing me. I need to do something."

"You could clean your room," Plague offers dryly from the other side of the couch.

Whiskey hurls an IKEA shark at him. "Fuck off."

Plague catches it one-handed, but the tail knocks his laptop off his lap. He catches it with his other hand, somehow. "You fucking idiot⁠—"

"Yo, that was sick!" Whiskey crows.

Plague glowers at him, pulling his laptop back into his lap and slinging the shark back at Whiskey.

It bounces off him and hits Wraith's arm. The feral alpha's eyes snap open. He stares at the shark, blinks, then looks up at us with a perplexed crease between his eyebrows. Ivy doesn't notice. She's too engrossed in her fanfiction.

Whiskey "rescues" his shark with a cry of despair and flings himself back onto the couch, landing half on top of Plague, who snarls and shoves uselessly at him.