Instawolf

Thiago

I don’t know if you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to be the king of the internet, but you don’t have to. Let me tell you how it looks: pants low on the hips, a bit of music, smooth body movements, and a whole lot of people wanting to see how I do it. The truth is, I’ve got it down to a fine art. I turn on the camera and start dancing, I feel the rhythm, I feel all those eyes on me... and I make money from it. Simple, right?

I don’t need to wonder if my life is “page 10 of a success guide,” and I don’t need to prove to anyone that I’m someone. Because I’m Santiago Ortiz — an influencer who doesn’t have to worry about “serious issues” of others. I do what I love — making videos that stir the imagination and let me live on my own terms.

Reels? That’s my specialty. “Another 100K?” Sure thing. When I have a video planned, I know those hearts will fall on me like rain. But it’s not just about the money. It’s about the fact that I feel damn good doing it. And if someone doesn’t get it, that’s their problem.

I’ve got my people, my audience, and that’s enough. Wolves? Pff, that all sounds like a thing of the past. I’m free. And freedom tastes best to the sound of my favorite track. Or two. Or whatever’s heating up the girls right now.

I’m the Latin type, hot as lava, with tanned, smooth skin like silk, and a storm of black hair on my head. I shave below the belly because it looks better in front of the camera.

Not that I show anything more than what’s appropriate, but sometimes I like to tease my admirers, like I did recently. I filmed a one-minute video where I’m naked in bed, sensually moving my hips. Nothing too special, but before the shoot, I got worked up and had an erection, which I covered with a light white blanket, exposing the left side of my shaved lower belly. The effect? With my movements, my stiff rod swayed under the blanket, visible on the video, and if you look closely, you can see how far under the blanket it reaches.

Result? A couple of million views, a few marriage proposals, a few thousand meeting requests from both genders, and a nice, round figure in ad revenue.

I love this life. I wouldn’t trade it for another. Not for the so-called ‘normal wolf life.’ Sounds like a recipe for premature post-traumatic stress.

Pack? I’m in touch with family and friends, regularly visit my parents and my brother, Marco. But if someone offered me to be an alpha, a beta, or a warrior trainer, hell no. I already have my own pack: a pack of admirers. The only one I want to lead.

I’m thinking about what I’ll do in Philadelphia, where I’m going to visit my miracle-recovered cousin Iris da Silva. Their local Alpha, some Kai Christ... something like that. Sounds like a lead singer of a metal band, not an Alpha with existential problems. Anyway, he found her as Gina Holloway among the street junkies. The girl had no idea who she really was.

I don’t know the whole story, but apparently, her mate, Kai, dug up some family dirt related to my late aunt, Luana Ortiz. It led to a huge scandal, and even the King of Werewolves, Eric Van Doren, got involved.

I’m packing my second suitcase, which holds my favorite gadgets I use for shooting reels: a few T-shirts, pants, hoodies. Some people pack survival gear or silver bullets. I pack pants that make my ass trend. I’m driving my Hummer, so I’m not worried about lack of space for luggage. A healthy dinner before the camera, a tender kiss to my fans, and then sleep.

I wake up at six. Not that anyone’s waking me up. The light just comes through the blinds perfectly, and my mirror says on its own: “Thiago, you look so good today, it would be a shame not to show it to people.” So I recorded a quick story – bare chest, coffee, smile. Half a million views before I even packed the trunk.

Atlanta in the morning is nice. The city hasn’t started sweating yet. The engine of my Hummer roars like an alpha male showing off his strength, but I don’t need to prove anything to anyone. I just am.

The road to Philadelphia? Ten, maybe eleven hours of driving, depending on how many times I stop to refuel or... drop a pic at the parking lot. I stop at a station in North Carolina — black T-shirt, jeans, sunglasses. A guy at the pump spills coffee, a girl from the car next to me takes a photo. Yeah, baby, that’s me. Thiago Ortiz. The Latin thunder on four wheels.

I’m listening to my playlist — a lot of reggaeton, some old latino rock. Something with fire. Something that matches the rhythm of my hips. I mumble the lyrics to my new recording: “Mornings with Ortiz – how to start the day right... and not go crazy.” Maybe I’ll find a rooftop studio in Philadelphia? After all, a change of background always works for the algorithms.

I cross the Pennsylvania state line, and the city slowly rises on the horizon. Philadelphia. It doesn’t smell like Atlanta. It’s rougher, heavier. People here look like they’ve been through a few more fights than dates. But that’s good. It’s a contrast. And contrasts sell.

Center of Philadelphia. The sun’s beating my face through the window, music’s playing loud, and I’m just fixing my hair, looking at myself in the mirror. Left profile, slight half-smile. Perfect.

I turn into the parking lot at some urban coffee bar. Something rings a bell.

A soft thud. Like I just brushed against a milk carton.

I look — seriously? The bumper of some well-maintained sedan is lightly scratched. The paint didn’t even chip. A guy in a suit gets out, looking like he just failed the exam of life.

“Seriously? Look what you’ve done!” he yells.

“Man, even birds leave worse marks.” I say calmly, stepping out and stretching my T-shirt across my chest. Maybe he’ll calm down from the sight of my muscles. He doesn’t.

“I’m calling the police! Let’s see what they’ll say when they find out some ‘Mexican’ scratched my car!”

I don’t correct him. I don’t feel like educating racists on a Monday. He calls, and in the meantime, I take a selfie with the damaged bumper and caption: “When your aura messes with cars.”

A few minutes later, a police car screeches to a stop. She gets out.

“Good evening, Officer Richards. Who was driving this Hummer?”

I raise my hand.

“A Latin in full bloom, Señorita.”

She doesn’t respond. She looks at me like I’m a problem to solve, not an object to admire.

Okay. Interesting.

She walks closer, slow, confident steps. She takes off her sunglasses. Stops two meters away from me. And then something... weird happens.

I don’t hear the guy from the bumper anymore. I don’t hear the music playing in my car.

I hear only my own breath. And my heartbeat.

My wolf... growls.

But not out of anger.

Out of excitement.

“Did you drive the vehicle?” she asks coldly, her tone the one she learned at the academy.

And I... nothing.

Zero response. My mind is blank. I’ve forgotten all the lines I usually use to charm women. No “Querida,” no smile number five.

I’m... speechless. I glance at her — red hair tied up in a bun, freckles on her cheeks, a look like the edge of a scalpel. Strong. Cold. And... damn beautiful.

My throat dries up.

The wolf thrashes under my skin.

It’s her.

Ours.

“Hello?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Umm... yeah. Yeah, that was me... driving.” I stammer, like a kid in front of the blackboard.

“Registration and driver’s license.” She extends her hand, still indifferent. She doesn’t know. Not yet.

I go back to the car, walking in a daze. My hands are shaking. Me. Thiago Ortiz. The guy who can make the camera blush. And now I’m struggling to get my documents out of my wallet.

One word presses between my ribs, the one I can’t stand: destiny.

Ugh.

I’m not the type who goes to those annual meetups where single males scan the room like dogs at the shelter. I’ve never been drawn to that. The wolf’s game of pairing? No thanks. I’ve always thought it was a myth. Or an excuse for those who can’t pick someone up like a human.

And now... my body’s literally losing it. My heart’s pounding like a hammer, the wolf inside is licking the bars.

And for who? For the officer with a gaze like a frozen lake. With red hair and that voice that doesn’t beg, it commands.

She takes my documents. Her fingers touch mine.

A simple gesture. And I get a chill like I have a fever.

“Santiago Ortiz,” she reads my license. “From Atlanta.”

“From Planet Influence,” I reply with a crooked smile, reflexively. Does she know me? Doesn’t she? She should, all the girls know me.

I glance at her. Zero reaction. It’s like she’s seen through me and decided that I’m... a meme. Damn, it hurts.

“So, Mr. Ortiz, do you often bump into people, or is that just an Atlanta style?”

Jesus. She has a tongue like a razor blade. The wolf inside me howled with pleasure.

“Only those I like.” I try to regain my footing.

She, I swear, bites her lip like she’s trying not to laugh, looks at me and then at the guy whose car I scratched, and says a short, “Well…”

Ouch.

I inhale through my nose. It smells... like metal, leather, and that note that can’t be described. Mate. Damn it.

I know I need to pull myself together. I need to run before I dig myself in deeper. But I don’t move. I stand there like an idiot, staring at her, as if she were the sun and I were a plant after winter.

And then it hits me: I am lost.

Carla

“Two more hours and I’m off duty,” I say, stretching. “How’s your wife? The baby giving her a hard time?” I ask my partner, Officer Mark Dupree, who became a dad six months ago to a beautiful baby girl named Maria.

“You know how it is—teething, gas, poop, feeding. But we’re hanging in there,” he replies.

Well, I don’t know how it is. I don’t have kids. Or a husband. Or even a fiancé. Not even a boyfriend, though a few have applied for the vacancy left by my ex. But I don’t want to start something that’ll fall apart again because of my job.

“Car 2137, fender bender in the La Colombe Coffee parking lot, you’re closest,” comes through the radio, and I confirm the call. Mark’s already making a U-turn before I’m even done speaking to dispatch.

At the scene, I see a well-kept sedan with a flustered middle-aged man beside it, and the side of a Hummer with Georgia plates. I think: yep, tourist. I spot him right away—tall, tanned Latino, the kind who doesn’t let a skirt pass by. All polished up, standing like he owns the world. Young, maybe my age, but more likely younger.

“I’ve got this,” I tell Mark and step out. “Good evening, Officer Richards. Who was driving the Hummer?” I ask, though I already know. The Latino raises his hand, staring at me with a strange look—do I have donut crumbs on my face or something?

He throws out some throwaway line, trying to be charming, but I’m immune to cheap pickup lines. I take three steps closer and remove my sunglasses—just in case this visitor tries to pull the “incompetent cop” card.

I look at him and see he’s got nice black eyes, but his pupils are noticeably dilated. Drugs?

“Were you the driver, sir?” I ask coldly, watching every move, every flicker of behavior. “Hello?”

“Uhh… yes. Yes, I was… driving.” he says, and his voice is off. That cocky stance melts into something nervous, and I start to wonder if there’s something in his car he’s trying to hide.

“Registration and license.” I hold out my hand, and he looks at it like I’ve got seven fingers—or like he’s thinking of shaking it.

He heads to his car, still visibly shaken. I don’t like his behavior one bit, and instinctively rest my hand on my holster, snapping it open just in case he pulls a weapon. But instead, he takes a wallet from the glovebox and almost drops it while digging out the documents. He hands them to me, and as I take them, our fingers brush for a split second.

“Santiago Ortiz. From Atlanta,” I read, holding the ID so my body cam gets a clear shot.

“From the planet Influencia,” the Latino replies.

So he’s an influencer. One of the worst types of people I deal with. Always causing trouble, always looking to turn every moment into content, always casting themselves as the victim. My guard goes up higher. I give him my best professional deadpan.

“So, Mr. Ortiz, do you rear-end people often, or is that just the Atlanta driving style?” I ask, trying to throw him off a bit. My gut says he might actually have something illegal in the car—guys like this rarely handle life sober.

His eyes widen in surprise, but I see him try to dial up the charm.

“Only the ones I like.” he answers.

I almost laugh out loud, glancing at the sedan’s owner. Does Mr. Ortiz realize how unfortunate that line sounds? As if he’s into middle-aged men with dad bods and thinning hair.

I quickly get serious again and make a subtle hand gesture behind my back to signal Mark to get out and join me.

“Are you under the influence of any illegal substances, alcohol, or prescription meds, Mr. Ortiz?” I ask, not waiting for a reply. “Open the trunk and place your hands on the roof of the vehicle.”

I see his stunned expression, but he obeys without protest. While Mark pats him down, I begin inspecting the vehicle interior.

“Will your insurance cover the damages?” I ask, jotting down a quick report in my duty notepad on a clipboard. At that moment, it hits me what’s been bothering me about the Latino: his last name. Ortiz. I don’t believe in coincidences, and I figure this one has to be related to Marco Ortiz, the head of one of the biggest marketing and real estate firms in this part of the state.

I know what — who — the Ortizes are. I’ve known for a few months now who really runs this city, and that it’s best not to mess with the forces these ‘people’ represent.

“Yes, Officer Richards, I’ll cover”—a small cough—“the damages,” Ortiz says, sounding like he’s starting to enjoy the situation.

Does my face betray that I know who he is? I put my sunglasses back on, wanting to hide the look in my eyes from him.

“In that case, it’ll end with a warning, Mr. Ortiz. Please drive more carefully,” I say and head back to the patrol car, eager to get away as quickly as possible. I just don’t want trouble with those… creatures.

I’m already in the patrol car, the bumper clicked against the asphalt, and the engine hums quietly, as if it too wants to get away from this situation. Mark closed the door and sat next to me.

“Do you know who that was?” I ask him, turning the radio on low to cover the heavy silence that starts to fill the cabin.

Mark mumbles something unintelligible, fastening his seatbelt. “No, but something about that guy doesn’t sit right with me. I don’t know, his vibe was off.”

I roll my eyes, although he can’t see me. “He’s one of them, Mark. One of the shifters.”

Mark freezes for a second, then looks at me as if he doesn’t quite understand what I mean. “Shifters? You mean...?”

“I mean: werewolves, Mark. His last name’s Ortiz, just like Marco Ortiz, the guy in marketing and real estate. You know who these people are. They say they run this town.” I try to keep my tone calm, but subconsciously, my breath picks up speed.

“Shit...” Mark inhales sharply, clearly uneasy. “So what now?”

“Nothing. It’ll just be a warning, and that’s it.” I avert my gaze and start the engine.

I get in the car, still feeling that strange weight in my chest, something I can’t explain. It’s like a cold shiver running down my spine. It’s the bond. That damn strong bond. I don’t know how it happened, but I can feel it now — she’s my mate. Right now, after this encounter, it hit me full force.

I didn’t go looking for this. It’s not like I was seeking her out in my life, no. Most wolves chase their mate, but me? I’ve always avoided that responsibility. And I still don’t want it. Something I can’t control, something I don’t want in my life. I wanted to keep my distance from all of that. Live easy, without getting too involved.

But now... now I feel it. Anyway, she probably felt something too. Though I tried to ignore it, I can see that her expression when she looked at me was different. Like she already knew something. Of course, she couldn’t know everything, but something must have clicked for her. Maybe she wasn’t surprised by my presence, maybe she even knew who I am. But it doesn’t change the fact that I don’t want to drag her into all this.

I grab my phone from the holder under the roof of the cabin. Damn, it was recording. I was going to turn it off, but something made me take another look at it. I saw her searching the trunk, saw her lean over. Okay, maybe she shouldn’t have done that, but it doesn’t mean it surprises me. Something about it piqued my interest, something that made me look at her again. And once again, I felt what I had to feel.

I wasn’t looking for a mate. But she... she’s mine. I don’t know how it happened, but now she’s here, in my head. The bond that’s starting to push me toward her, and I don’t want to follow it.

I rewind the recording again to make sure what I saw happened. And then it hits me: she looked like someone who knows more than she should. Maybe not everything, but her gaze... maybe she knew I’m more than just a guy with car problems.

It’s strange, but I don’t feel the need to go after her right now. At least not yet. Instead, I start the engine and drive off, thinking only about the fact that this whole thing isn’t about what I want, but about what she’s triggering in me. The bond. It’s hard to ignore, but I still hope I can.

I drive off, the road stretching ahead, but my mind keeps drifting back to her. Damn. I can’t stop thinking about that damn bond. It’s like a song stuck in my head that I can’t get rid of.

But whatever. I’m not gonna let it mess with my vibe. I hit the gas and turn the music up, then reach for my phone. Hey, time to get back to what I do best — influencer life. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m still a little rattled by everything, but damn, I need to distract myself.

I pull up the camera app and start recording.

“Yo, what’s up, people? It’s your boy Santiago Ortiz, just handling some... let’s say, ‘unexpected business.’ But hey, life goes on, and so do we. Stay tuned for some more epic moments, ’cause you know how I roll.”

A quick wink to the camera, and I stop the recording. That should do it. Hell, if life’s gonna keep throwing curveballs, I might as well make it content.