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The autumn wind sweeping through the Oak Creek reserve carried the crisp, sharp scent of pine needles, damp earth, and the faint, lingering smell of woodsmoke from a meticulously constructed fire pit. In the center of the designated clearing, Boy Scout Troop 442 stood in a perfect, terrifyingly silent semi-circle. Twelve twelve-year-old werewolf pups, clad in immaculate, pressed khaki uniforms, stood at absolute attention. Their posture was rigid. Their golden eyes were fixed for