You walk towards the door that opens into the main shop, and pick behind one of your canines with a claw as you go. Somehow, before his mysterious disappearance under mysterious circumstances, your cousin managed to lodge a thread from his hoodie in your teeth. You grasp and turn the door handle, lick your teeth as you finally manage to dislodge the thread, and then stiffen as you notice that your uncle has gone. You look around the area, growl under your breath, and flick the thread away as you feel unaccountably annoyed; an instinct that batters at the back of your mind tells you to drop to all fours and sniff around the area for a trail, but you know that you don't have your uncle's scent so you ignore it. Instead, you head up the creaky stairs to the residential area, low-key growling under your breath the entire way.
The handle of the door at the top of the stairs glows under your hand and you jerk away, then you carefully touch the handle with your fingers a couple of times before finally grasping and turning it; you've confirmed your uncle as a wizard, so it pays to be cautious. You open the door a crack and poke your snout through into the familiar-looking living space you were shown earlier; an obvious opening to a modern kitchenette, a pair of slippers next to the stairs door and a couple of closed doors are visible. You don't hear anything, until you pass the threshold; instantly the sound of a television a few rooms away is obvious, while the natural sound of the streets outside the shop disappear. You look back at the open door, twitch your ears, and then close it with a click before turning to find your uncle.
It's pretty easy; he's sitting in front of the television, watching a cable rerun of "The Golden Girls". You watch silently as Betty White does something on screen, then turn your attention to Uncle Jack. He's balding, you notice, very edible and still doesn't look appetising. You sample the air, black nose twitching, and notice that the only scent comes from the couch, the carpets, whatever polish Uncle Jack uses on the furniture, and the scent of warm electronics from the television. You don't smell any middle-aged human males, and it prompts you to walk forward, vault over the back of the sofa onto a cushion, push right into your uncle's lap and put your nose as close to his face as you can in your attempt to catch a scent.
"The hell are you doing?" Uncle Jack leans away from you and your wiggling nose and stares.
"Wuff?" Your language skills haven't improved, you notice.
"Wha- Oh. No, of course not." He pats his chest, causing his gold-and-violet, chrysanthemum-patterned velvet robe to ripple. "Wizard. I can just stop myself smelling like anything."
You stare at him intently as you process this, and he meets your own yellow eyes with faint amusement, then you pull as far away from him as possible until you're pressed up against the opposite arm of the couch. You feel your weirdly small tail wag once or twice, uncertain at the sight of your uncle's slight frown.
"Hrff," you explain. "Wuff?"
"Of course I shower." Uncle Jack's frown deepens, then he tilts his head briefly to one side. "Fine. I see your point, but I'm not letting myself be tracked by scent. How did things go with Alex?"
You can't help it; you lick your lips.
"Did you leave a mess?"
You consider the trail of fear-piss, the torn bundle of urine-soaked shorts and underwear, the droplets of drool, the stray sneakers and the horrifically nose-bending pair of filthy socks you left in the warehouse. You also left a perfectly serviceable hoodie and t-shirt in a pile at the end of the pee-trail, but you weren't thinking of wearing clothes over your fur; it just felt kind of weird at the time, although you have no idea why.
"Huff," you shrug.
"'A bit', huh? Any stock damaged?"
You shake your head.
"Good. You hungry?" You do nothing but level a stare at your uncle. "Not for people. For food."
You consider it, then shrug your shoulders.
"Aright, that probably means you've got about ten minutes before you feel the need to eat someone again." He smiles at the way your lips pull up from your teeth. "That costume was a custom piece for a magical game of Werewolf. Turns out I was a bit hazy on the rules, so after I finished that one I had to make another one because it wasn't up to specifications. Anyway; basically, you're playing 'tag' in a sixteen to twenty person game. Stick to sixteen for now. You're 'it'. You're always 'it' as long as you wear the costume. Everyone's a player, unless they tell you otherwise. If you want to let people out, just daydream about everyone you've eaten, and you'll be able to bring them back up."
You blink. For a moment, you think about how you swallowed Alex whole, and you get an uncomfortable feeling in your stomach, distracting you from your thoughts.
"You want to let Alex out?" Without even realising what you're doing, you crouch on the sofa, hunch your shoulders and snarl at your uncle. Your teeth are bared, the fur between your shoulder blades prickles and there's a tickle at the back of your mind that's suggesting outright murder.
"You'll need to eat fifteen more people to do it properly then," your uncle continues, with a small smile. "The costume hates losing. Don't disappoint it by giving up, because you'll just find yourself swallowing everyone down again."
Uncle Jack sighs as you adjust your shoulders, sit back down on the sofa and look embarrassed.
"Behavioural modifications, an entire language that stays with every player, a whole suite of enhancements to senses, and the ability to get stronger or faster or smarter whenever you meet a specific requirement, and very nearly a conscious mind to nudge and guide the wearer along. The best work I've ever done, and they didn't want you." You look up in time for Jack to catch your left ear with a hand and start gently scratching. The sensation ripples pleasurably straight down the entire core of your being, and your leg starts moving on its own. "Pity. Anyway, John, if you want to wear the costume around Alex after you've won, it might be a bit awkward if he knows about it. I suggest making him think that you're a magical construct I made on a whim just to fu- mess with him. It means he needs to be the last one out, after you've won, and he'll be willing to maybe try out spectator mode." You feel your ears prick on their own, tugging away from your uncle's fingers, and you blink. "The werewolf knows about that one, clearly. I'll tell the John part of you about it later, after you've won, so focus on that for now."
You watch his hand move away with a sense of loss, then your uncle leans towards you, catches you gently under the chin with his other hand and stares deep into your eyes.
"I don't want to play," he enunciates, clearly. Somehow, the words make him even less appealing; more like an item of furniture or a concrete bollard than something disgusting but edible. As he leans back, you shiver at the realisation that something so simple changed your mind so completely. "Last tip before you get distracted; when you find someone, eat them. Don't bother stripping them, and eat their belongings at the same time. You can digest everything, and you don't want to leave evidence. I really don't want my nephew getting shot because the werewolf wanted to play with its food. You've got a very bad habit of doing that."
You wince as you feel the first tendrils of a ravenous hunger crawl into your abdomen.
"I'll have food that's not made out of people ready in an hour, and I'll keep it warm for another two. The shop door will be unlocked to you. Have fun playing with the neighbours."
Your uncle's smile is the last thing you see before a ravenous hunger grips your insides and you black out.
You wake up: