Cyrus' cruiser motorcycle thundered along the narrow country road, its engine snarling like a beast unleashed. The town's lights had long faded into the darkness behind him, swallowed by the dense tree line that now flanked both sides of the road. Only the soft, flickering beam of his headlamp cut through the shadows ahead, illuminating the occasional moth caught in its glow.
He rode alone. But he barely noticed the isolation.
His mind was a storm.
"You are his vessel."
The werewolf's words from the wooden house echoed endlessly in his head, scratching at the corners of his sanity. They weren't just threats—they were riddles. Revelations. Warnings.
Could it be true?
There was no other way to explain the surge of power he'd felt during that last fight. No logical reason why a sprained ankle could fully heal overnight. No way to explain the way his body had responded—faster, stronger, like it knew how to kill long before he did.
Maybe this next hunt would give him answers.
He veered off the highway and onto a gravel road that crunched under his tires like brittle bones. It led to a broken gate and a rutted trail barely wide enough for the bike. Beyond it, perched at the end like a forgotten relic, stood the farmhouse.
It loomed against the night sky like a ruin from another era—two stories of weather-stained stone and sagging timber, its sloped roof dipped like a spine bent under ancient weight. The wooden windmill nearby creaked in slow, labored rotations, turning with the wind's breath like a tired sentinel. The air felt wrong—too still, too hollow.
Cyrus cut the engine. Silence pressed in like a vice.
He let out a low whistle.
"Creepy as hell."
He stepped off the bike and reached for his rifle, eyes scanning the house. A faint glow bled from one of the second-story windows—a flicker of firelight, soft and steady.
He squinted.
Movement.
A shadow behind the curtain—gone the instant he blinked.
His boots crunched over dead leaves as he approached the porch. The old boards groaned beneath his weight like a voice warning him to turn back.
This was different.
He'd been on countless hunts before—but this one had teeth.
And it was watching.
He stepped to the door and tested the handle. It turned without resistance. A slow creak followed, the sound slicing the stillness as the door swung open.
Inside, darkness clung to the walls like a second skin. Only the faint amber glow from upstairs guided his path. Dust coated the furniture. The wallpaper peeled in long, curling strips. Time had rotted the house from the inside out.
There was no need to search the ground floor.
His target was waiting.
Cyrus mounted the staircase, every step careful, every creak sharp in the silence. As he climbed, the light grew stronger. Warmer. The faint scent of burning wood reached his nose.
The upstairs hallway stretched out in shadows and amber haze. From the far end, a door stood half open, firelight spilling from within.
He crept forward like a predator.
Silent. Controlled. Rifle steady.
He pushed the door open.
The room was lit by the flickering fire in a stone hearth. Shadows danced across the cracked walls and blackened floorboards. Soot clung to everything like a skin. Broken picture frames hung askew. A child's drawing lay yellowed in the corner, long forgotten.
In front of the fireplace sat a woman, her back to him. Her long hair was tied back, straight and dark as oil. She didn't flinch at his presence.
"It's rude to invite yourself in," she said calmly, her voice smooth, almost mocking.
"Didn't anyone teach you how to knock?"
Cyrus didn't respond immediately. He blinked—processing. A woman? Alone in a place like this?
This was new.
His grip on the rifle tightened.
"You've got a sexy voice," he muttered. "For a werewolf."
She let out a soft laugh.
"Flattery and threats. Classic hunter combo."
He took a slow step forward.
"You know what people say about this house?" he asked. "They say it's cursed. Infested with things like you."
"People say a lot of things," she said, her tone dismissive. "They talk when they're bored. Or scared."
"You heard me coming, didn't you?"
"I've been waiting," she said softly. "For a long time."
"And now?"
She turned her head slightly, just enough for him to catch the edge of her profile in the firelight.
"Now… you're here."
Cyrus stepped closer. The wooden floor groaned underfoot.
"I wouldn't take another step if I were you," she said, voice low but sharp.
"Oh yeah? And why's that?"
"Because the silence is going to take you."
He frowned.
"You speak in riddles. I hate riddles. Just tell me what you are."
"I'm saying," she said, turning slightly more, her amber eyes catching the firelight,
"you're going to die here, Cyrus."
His blood ran cold.
"How do you know my name?" he asked.
The woman smiled.
"You carry it like a curse."
A loud slam cracked through the room.
Cyrus spun around, heart hammering. The door had slammed shut with unnatural force—so sudden, so violent it made his stomach drop.
But when he looked—nothing.
No wind.
No footsteps.
Just silence.
"I'm right here."
The voice was behind him. Cold. Too close.
He turned back—and froze.
A man now stood between him and the woman. Close. Too close. Closer than anyone had the right to be without making a sound.
Pale skin caught the firelight. His mouth was slightly open, revealing long, sharp fangs. And his eyes—
Molten gold. Bright. Predatory.
A werewolf. A fast one.
Cyrus' mouth went dry. His instincts screamed for him to run, but he stood rooted in place. His brain tried to calculate odds—how to survive, how to kill. But all he could see was death. Fast, certain death.
There were two of them now.
A man. A woman. And both of them radiated power that felt ancient.
Still, Cyrus wasn't the kind of man to lie down and die.
He forced himself to breathe.
To steady his shaking hands.
Fear wouldn't save him.
Fear never saved anyone.
"Things keep getting shittier," he muttered, his voice betraying a crack of fear.
The man—no, the monster—grinned.
"Are you scared? You should be."
"You got him all spooked up, Gilbert," the woman said from behind, rising from her chair.
Cyrus turned his eyes to her—and blinked.
She was stunning. The kind of beautiful that burned into memory. High cheekbones, sleek dark hair pulled tight, and full lips shaped by equal parts softness and command. But it was her eyes—glowing, slitted like a cat's—that held him.
Wild. Dangerous. Deadly.
"Werewolves have no right to be this beautiful," he muttered under his breath.
She smiled.
A memory scratched at the back of his mind—Mr. Chung.
The girl with cat eyes.
It was her.
"Stare too long," Gilbert said, voice laced with mockery, "and I'll make sure you die slow."
Cyrus snapped out of it. He'd forgotten about the other one—still too close.
"It's not my fault you look like a rotting potato with fangs," Cyrus shot back.
Gilbert's eyebrow rose. Even Cyrus was surprised by his own mouth.
"You've got a sharp tongue," Gilbert growled. "Can't wait to rip it out."
"We're not killing him—" the girl said, stepping closer. "Not yet."
"Relax, Tabeth," Gilbert muttered. "I just wanted the tongue."
Gilbert turned his back.
Mistake.
Cyrus moved in a flash, yanking the rifle off his shoulder and raising it. If he could just take the shot—
But Gilbert was already moving.
Inhuman speed.
Faster than a falling raindrop.
A blur of motion—then pain exploded in Cyrus' wrist. The rifle tore from his grip and crashed against the far wall.
Cyrus gasped, stunned again.
First the woman. Then Gilbert. Now both.
This was too much.
They were playing with him.
His fear tripled, crushing his lungs. His body wanted to collapse, to surrender. He'd never felt so small.
Gilbert bared his teeth.
"You don't know how to behave around superior beings," he hissed.
"I was going to kill you later. But now?"
He leaned in close.
"Now I'm going to kill you… wake you up… then kill you again."
He turned to Tabeth. She said nothing.
Approval.
Cyrus' voice trembled.
"How the hell do you know about my power?"
Tabeth answered.
"Oh, we know a lot of things… love."
Her tone hardened.
"We'll talk later. But for now—you're going to die."
Cyrus could barely think.
"Die?" he thought. "How the hell will we talk if I'm dead?"
But his lips wouldn't move.
"Time to take a nap," Gilbert said coldly.
His hand lashed out—too fast to stop—and clamped around Cyrus' throat. With one arm, he lifted him off the floor.
Cyrus kicked and gasped. The air disappeared. The pressure on his windpipe crushed everything—breath, voice, hope.
His fingers clawed uselessly at Gilbert's arm.
His vision blurred.
The firelight faded.
Is this it?
Is this how I die?
In a forgotten house. Surrounded by monsters.
He felt a strange peace rising beneath the panic—that calm before death. But something inside him screamed louder.
Not yet. Not like this.
He hadn't found the truth.
Flashes.
Abby's face.
His team.
The laughter.
The voice—
"You smell like him."
So where was it now?
Why wasn't it saving him?
Maybe he'd been wrong all along.
Maybe he'd spent his life hunting the very thing he was meant to become.
"I'm gonna make you feel every ounce of pain the wolves you murdered felt," Gilbert snarled, voice shaking with rage.
Cyrus couldn't reply. Couldn't breathe.
His lips parted—no sound.
His chest convulsed once, then again. Then stillness.
"Give me the dagger," Gilbert said.
Tabeth unsheathed a blade—a cruel thing carved from a werewolf's ancient fang, gleaming ivory with silver veins pulsing down its edge.
She handed it over.
"I'll be waiting for you," Gilbert whispered, driving the dagger into Cyrus' chest.
The blade slid in clean and deep.
Straight into the heart.
Cyrus gasped—a wet, broken sound.
His body convulsed once. Then dropped like a sack of meat.
He hit the floor hard. The world was fading fast. Cold fingers pulled at him from every direction.
He blinked. Once. Twice.
His chest gave a final rise—and stopped.
Tabeth knelt and touched his neck, fingers smooth and steady.
"Is he dead?" Gilbert asked.
"Yes," she said, calm as frost.
Gilbert exhaled through his nose.
"How long do you think?"
"Five minutes," she said. "Maybe less. Either way, we need to be ready."
They both stared down at the corpse on the floor.
But Tabeth wasn't looking at a corpse.
She was watching a storm about to break.