Neon Shadows and Old Scars: A Night in the Life of The Red

The city’s neon claws rake across the fog-choked streets tonight, same as every other night, pulling me out from whatever hole I’ve crawled into. I rev the engine of my old bike, that familiar growl cutting through the hum of drones overhead, and feel the pull—like the forest used to call me back when I was just a girl with blood on her dress. Anonymous, you ever wake up knowing the dark’s got teeth, and you’re the only one crazy enough to go looking for them? I light a cheap smoke, the kind that tastes like regret and ash, and let it burn slow while I check my axe, its edge gleaming under a flickering streetlamp. Scarlet Phobia’s been quiet lately—no big runs, no turf wars eating up the hours—so I’ve got time for what matters: the hunt. Werewolves don’t punch clocks; they slink through the industrial ruins when the moon fattens up, and I’ve got a notebook full of phases telling me it’s getting close. Last night, I traced claw marks on a rusted girder down by the docks, deep enough to score metal like butter—fresh, too fresh. I tapped my thumb against my thigh, restless, smelling the air for that wet-dog stink they leave behind. That’s my rhythm: idle the bike too long, sniff the wind, then ride into the shit.

Riding these streets ain’t poetry; it’s survival with a side of vengeance, and I’ve been at it longer than this cyberpunk hellhole’s been standing. Back when the forests ringed the old villages, I learned the hard way what happens when you trust the wrong shadow—gutted alive by a wolf that talked sweet before it tore in. The huntsman pulled me out, but immortality’s a bitch; it stitched me back wrong, left me healing too fast, aging like spoiled milk left in the sun. Parents tried, then quit—pushed me out at eighteen with nothing but anger and a red hood that stuck like a curse. I scavenged, stole, taught myself the axe on rabbits first, then bigger things that howled under the moon. Trophies started piling up: teeth strung on leather, claws tucked in my saddlebag, fur scraps yellowed with age. Anonymous, if you’re reading this thinking it’s fairy-tale bullshit, come find me in the fog; I’ll show you a fang from the first one I dropped solo. These days, the gang knows better than to ask where I vanish to—Scarlet Phobia runs itself, but they tip their helmets when The Red rolls back in, bloodied or not.

Moon’s waxing tonight, so I park the bike in a derelict warehouse, boots crunching glass underfoot as I check exits first—habit from too many ambushes. I never take the hood off, not even alone; it’s armor, memory, the one thing that wolf couldn’t rip away. Inside, I unholster the crossbow, fletch a bolt by feel while old folk tunes scratch from a battered radio—won’t admit I like 'em, but they drown out the echoes in my head. Height’s a joke the world’s always laughing at; 148cm of fury, they say, and yeah, I wear these boots for grip, not inches, but try patting my head and see how quick you hit the floor. I climb a crate to scan the rooftops, glaring up at the sprawl like it owes me something—which it does, for swallowing the woods. A storm’s brewing, thunder rumbling distant; I watch it from up here, carving a quick wolf effigy from scrap wood, superstitious bullshit but it steadies the hands. Gang rookies whisper about The Red like I’m myth, but I’ve fixed enough of their bikes post-hunt to earn the loyalty—no words needed, just results.

Dawn creeps in gray and oily, no kills last night but signs everywhere—howls echoing off megabuildings, shadows too long in the alleys. I binge on junk from a vending machine, forgetting meals for days then inhaling it all, wrapper crinkling while I sharpen the axe on concrete, sparks flying like angry stars. Past haunts in the quiet hours; I remember parents’ funerals I skipped, feeling nothing but the itch to hunt, forests bulldozed for this neon cancer. Scarlet Phobia formed from strays like me—bikers who saw me drop a feral in a brawl, stuck around for the protection I don’t ask to give. We ride the edges, dodging corp sec and rival packs, but I’m no leader anymore; too many wolves calling my name. Anonymous, you got a pack you bleed for? Mine’s loose, loyal in silence; I’d step between them and fangs without a blink, though I’d bite your head off for saying it. Back to the bike, idling long while I sniff the fuel—trusts nothing new—and plot the next derelict zone.

Afternoon’s for maintenance: tuning the engine till it purrs perfect, wiping blood flecks I didn’t notice before, mapping old forest overlays on city grids out of sheer nostalgia. I avoid mirrors—hate the red eyes staring back, wild blonde hair framing a face that’s stuck at twenty-something forever. Cops know to leave reports blank when my name whispers up; that rookie chasing a knife fiend learned quick, found him broken while I melted into fog. Bartenders pour my coffee black, no questions after the drunk who tested my space—floor met face fast, bar went tomb-silent. Height complex? Yeah, it flares—tiptoes in a standoff, curb-standing to ‘even’ talks, snapping at ‘short’ like it’s a slur, voice pitching high when flustered. But don’t mistake it for weakness; I’ve loomed tall enough to drop giants. Evening pulls me out again, smoke lit, hood up, crossbow slung—werewolf stink on the wind now, real and rank.

Wrapping this as the moon climbs, Anonymous, my doings boil down to this: ride, hunt, protect what’s mine, chase ghosts from a belly full of wolf once upon a time. City’s a jungle of steel and lies, but the beasts are timeless, and so am I—scarred, shortstack fury with an axe that sings. Past taught me trust’s a trap, touch is threat, but vengeance? That’s freedom. Scarlet Phobia endures because we don’t bend; I vanish for hunts, return with trophies, and we roll on. Next full moon, if you’re in the fog-shrouded districts, hear the bike’s roar—that’s me, coming for teeth. Don’t follow unless you want blood on your boots. Stay sharp, smell the air, check your exits. Wolves are out there, grinning. And The Red? Always hunting.