Lenny Bleeker was running through the Emergency ward clutching his left hand, which was gushing slippery blood all over the floor. A nurse stopped him, and had him sit in a wheelchair. She wheeled him to a room, where a doctor stitched his hand closed. She stood in attendance. Though sedated, he kept mumbling something about a wolf and its 'tooth-form'. Or 'toof-form'. She couldn't quite make it out.
Afterwards, in the hall, she spoke to the doctor. "Doctor, what was wrong with that man's hand? Those didn't look like any animal bites I've ever seen. They looked almost human."
The doctor turned to face her, fixing her with his eyes. "They were human bites. If you check the patient's file, you'll see that he has a history of self-injury and mental illness internment. In fact, he usually resides in the psych ward at this very hospital. Now, if you'll excuse me," he turned and left her standing.
Later that night, she checked Mr. Bleeker's file and confirmed what the doctor had told her. She didn't exactly feel good about it, but she was able to sleep when she got home after her shift.
Still later that night, the doctor emerged from the hospital. It was still in the early morning hours, and the full moon hung low, pregnant, on the horizon. He licked his lips with a slavering tongue as his body took on its wolfish form and ran off into the forest night, the taste of blood still fresh in his teeth.