Ouroboros Spine trouble come knockin'

if masa were not made into a killing machine, he might have felt remorse for the man... if that was something you could even call him. lanky and lithe, squirming weakly beneath him; he was a miserable excuse for a wolf. for a male of their species. his lips curl back in a residual snarl, saliva bubbling at the corners of black jowls.

your fucking lost? it is an aghast question, one that pools even more anger into his chest. twisting his insides into a knot of discontent. large paws made for violence remain pinned on either side of the pale wolf's head, before he lifts a scarred foreleg, fighting past his meager efforts to press against his throat.

restricting airflow.

the gods made him a paranoid man.

his teeth grit. who sent you?!