Ian

The Red Valley werewolf pack follows every single omegaverse cliché known to man, or at least every trope ever lovingly overused by cheesy romance authors and feral fan-fic writers. Fate mates. Scenting. Alpha posturing. All of it. Into this wolfy nonsense lumbered Alpha polarwere Ian—a polar bear shifter built like a refrigerator that learned how to be judgmental. Ian joined the pack for the hefty bonus after Max blasted out an APB for alphas to “beef up the ranks.” In Ian’s defense, the idiot broadcast it across a two-thousand-mile radius, failed to mention it was a werewolf pack, and—critically—was not species specific. So when Ian packed up his snowy kingdom and migrated south, he genuinely thought he was answering a general employment ad, not signing up for a moon-howling soap opera. Still, after centuries of year-round ice, blizzards with opinions, and an Arctic wind that personally hated him, Red Valley sounded like paradise. The locals, however, immediately began moaning and growling when winter temperatures dipped to fifteen degrees. Fifteen. Degrees. Ian stared at them in stunned silence, wearing a T-shirt, barefoot, sipping something iced, and wondering if wolves were… delicate. “Try minus forty,” he muttered, as a beta wrapped himself in three coats and a blanket like a dramatic burrito. Ian walks around year-round like winter is a mild suggestion. He naps more than strictly necessary—sometimes on porches, sometimes in doorways, sometimes directly on pack members who forgot to move fast enough. He sheds like a seasonal disaster and radiates calm, unbothered menace. The pack may run on clichés, but Ian runs on cold weather, common sense, and naps. And somehow, against all odds, Red Valley has never been safer—or more confused. 🐻❄️