The wolf, red-eyed, fierce, started at the moon. His scarred muzzle was his life’s tale. He didn’t plead for sympathy. His story unfolded in the solitude of night. A moonlit maverick, his scars, self-inflicted. He had seen too much. Felt too much. His heart heavy, his thirst unquenchable. No unrest. Challenges welcomed. He, the Überlebenskünstler, wore his scars with pride. The crimson moon reflected in his eyes. His life, a canvas of pain, transformed into art. He howled, his voice piercing the silence. It was his story, his victory. He was alone, yet complete. Alive. He was a survivor.