The God of the Werewolf World

Anja's eyes snapped open.

A spike of pain, sharp and blinding, shot through her skull. It felt like her brain being split in two. She gasped, a ragged sound in the dead quiet of the room, her hand flying to her forehead as if she could physically hold the pieces of her mind together.

The bed was wrong.

It was too soft, the sheets like cool silk against her skin. A low hum vibrated through the mattress, a subtle, calming frequency. Her bedroom in her tiny off-campus apartment had a lumpy mattress and scratchy polyester sheets.

Memories, not her own, crashed into her consciousness. The Commonwealth. A sprawling interstellar empire. Genetic corruption. Psionic abilities. The ratio of females to males was one to one hundred thousand. Females were rare, precious assets, revered wherever they went. A society where matrimonial contracts were brokered by a central authority dedicated to finding males worthy of their scarce females.

And a name. Kenny Mcdaniel. Her fiancé.

Before she could fully process any of it, a voice rang out from the doorway. "Even if I die, even if I get exiled to a barren mining planet, I will never form a bond with you!"

The door to the bedroom slammed open, the sound cracking through the silence like a gunshot.

A man strode in. He was tall, with sandy blond hair and a suit that was trying too hard to look expensive. It was tailored just a little too tight across the shoulders, the fabric a synthetic blend that caught the light with a cheap sheen. He carried himself with an unearned arrogance, his chin tilted up as he looked down his nose at her.

Kenny Mcdaniel.

The name clicked into place with a fresh wave of nausea.

He sneered, a curl of his lip that was meant to be disdainful but only made him look petulant. "Finally awake, are we? Don't bother putting on a show. I'm not here to play games."

Anja just stared at him, her mind a whirlwind of two lives colliding. One was a college student from Earth, drowning in student loans and surviving on instant noodles. The other was Anja Compton, heiress to a minor noble house, betrothed to this... this peacock. And from the memories of the original Anja, she could see the woman had been utterly blind. She had cried over him, pleaded for his attention, and rearranged her entire life to please him. For what? For a male of thoroughly average looks—decent, but nothing special—whose only remarkable feature was his physique, which was standard issue for any male who had completed the mandatory academy training. He had been handed a priceless gem on a silver platter and somehow convinced himself he deserved better. What a joke.

"I'm here to make things perfectly clear," Kenny continued, pacing in front of her bed like a lawyer in a courtroom drama. "This political arrangement our families cooked up? It's over. I've found someone I actually love. Someone who understands me. I will not sacrifice my happiness for some dusty old family alliance."

He punctuated his speech by slapping a thin, transparent data slate onto the polished wood of the nightstand. The clack was sharp and final. An electronic contract glowed on its surface: Agreement for Matrimonial Annulment.

"So you can take your pathetic, clingy affections and find someone else to bother," he spat, his voice rising with theatrical fervor. "I'm telling you now, Anja. Even if I die, even if I get exiled to a barren mining planet, I will never form a bond with you!"

Anja slowly pushed herself up, the silk sheets pooling around her waist. The headache was receding, replaced by a strange, icy calm. The Anja from Earth thought he was a joke. A weak, insecure man puffing up his chest to feel powerful in front of a woman he perceived as weaker. It was pathetic. And frankly, hilarious.

She let a slow, deliberate gaze travel from his cheap shoes up to his self-satisfied face. Then she met his eyes.

"Are you done?" she asked. Her voice was quiet, devoid of the hysteria he was clearly expecting.

Kenny froze mid-stride. The triumphant look on his face faltered, replaced by a flicker of confusion. "What?"

"Your performance," Anja clarified, leaning back against the plush headboard. She crossed her arms. "The big, dramatic speech. Was that the grand finale, or is there an encore?"

He stared at her, his mouth opening and closing silently. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to cry. To beg. To make a scene that would validate his decision and allow him to storm out as the wronged, romantic hero.

"You think this is a joke?" he stammered, his voice losing its confident edge. He puffed his chest out again, a desperate attempt to regain control. "I'm serious, Anja! I'm leaving you!"

"I heard you the first time," she said, her tone bored. "You want to end the engagement. Great. Let's do it."

She didn't even glance at the data slate he had thrown down. She simply looked towards the empty air near the door.

"Unit 01," she commanded.

A soft, synthesized voice replied instantly from an unseen speaker. "Yes, Mistress Anja."