The town slept under a blanket of darkness.
Victoria Town's streets, usually loud with commerce and chatter, had fallen mostly silent. The old clock tower loomed like a watchman in the night—its green and white face dim under the moonless sky. The only real noise came from a few stubborn bars still bleeding music into the night, their neon signs flickering like dying fireflies.
Mr. Chung walked alone.
His black suit clung to his stout frame, the polished shoes clicking softly against the worn tar. He carried no bag, no briefcase, no umbrella. Just a quiet sense of purpose, as if the stillness of the night obeyed his pace.
Across the street, under the skeletal arm of a streetlamp, a man leaned into a conversation with a girl in a tight dress.
"So how much?" the man asked, voice low and blunt.
The girl smiled without warmth.
Chung didn't look twice. He simply passed them, eyes forward, steps even. He turned into a narrow lane that opened toward the towering silhouette of a church—ancient, stone-built, a relic from colonial times. Its windows were dark, but its cross still glowed faintly at the tip, reflecting moonlight like a silent warning.
Chung stood at the arched doorway of the old cathedral, staring up at the night sky as if searching for permission—or perhaps a sign—from some higher power. The heavens offered no reply. Just a vast, indifferent blackness stretched above him, pierced by the faint shimmer of a few distant stars.
He hesitated.
For a moment, his hand gripped the iron handle of the ancient door but didn't pull. His brow furrowed, his jaw clenched. Maybe he was thinking of turning back. Maybe the weight of what he carried tonight finally began to crush down on him.
But then he exhaled… and stepped inside.
The heavy wooden doors creaked open, their sound echoing into the stillness within.
The interior of the old Catholic church swallowed him like a tomb. Shadows danced across cracked stone pillars and long-forgotten murals. Candles flickered along the aisles in rusted iron holders, their flames trembling as if wary of his arrival.
It smelled of age—of wax, and dust, and the dry rot of time. The air was thick with incense long since burned away, clinging stubbornly to the walls like ghosts too tired to leave. The silence was dense and sacred, not empty but full—so full it pressed against the skin, filled the ears, and seemed to listen with its own breathless anticipation.
Chung moved slowly, his footfalls muffled by the threadbare crimson carpet that stretched like a vein toward the altar.
He made his way to the confession booth and sat down on a wooden stool.
The wood groaned as he sank into the seat.
For a second, he didn't speak.
Then:
"Father, forgive me. I have sinned," he said softly, his voice barely more than a whisper.
A voice boomed from the other side of the partition, far louder than expected. Rough, deep. Uncomfortably familiar.
"I'm listening."
Chung lowered his head. "I fed lambs to wolves."
There was a sharp pause.
The kind that cuts through bone.
"…Chung?" the voice asked, quiet now. Tense. Alert.
"Yes," Chung answered. His hands were trembling, though his voice held steady. "I bring news."
There was a rustle from the other side of the confession booth. The sound of cloth brushing wood. A held breath. The air was still, thick with anticipation.
"Go on," said the voice at last, deep and sharp like broken glass. "I'm listening."
Mr. Chung had never seen the man behind the booth. Not once. He only knew the voice—harsh, cold, inhumanly calm—and the name he went by: Father Gordon. Obviously an alias. No one that terrifying could be a real priest.
Chung had never tried to peek. He wasn't stupid. You could smell danger if you paid enough attention, and Chung had learned long ago when to keep his head down. Something about Father Gordon made his skin crawl, made his instincts scream. If he had to choose between being captured by werewolves or crossing this man, he'd take the wolves any day. Father Gordon had the kind of presence that made horses rear in terror, that made men sweat without moving a muscle.
They met once a month. Every last Friday. Midnight sharp.
Same booth. Same cold silence.
Mr. Chung didn't know much about him—not his face, not his past—but he was convinced of one thing: Father Gordon was a werewolf hunter. Not a grunt like Cyrus or Abby. No, he was something else entirely. High-ranking. Untouchable. Maybe even something darker.
It was Chung's job to pass on intel—how many wolves were seen, how many killed, who died, what strange movements were happening in Victoria Town. He was the middleman, the informant, the coward with ears everywhere and loyalties nowhere.
And tonight was no different.
"An omega was killed this month," Chung began. His voice quivered beneath a sheen of sweat. "A few miles outside of town."
The air inside the booth grew warmer, denser—like something unseen had stirred.
"Is that so?" Father Gordon's voice remained flat, unimpressed.
"Squad C eliminated the threat. They put the beast down." Chung dabbed his nose with a crumpled handkerchief, voice catching. "But there were heavy casualties."
"Squad C? That's Cyrus's team, isn't it?" The tone shifted. Amused. Mocking. "The boy you're always rambling about?"
Chung nodded instinctively, then realized the man couldn't see him. "Yes."
"Casualties, huh? Did the boy kick the bucket, then?"
"No… no. Not exactly," Chung stammered. "There was a new lad. Gerald. The wolf got him before he could even react. Abby's injured—bad leg—but nothing life-threatening."
Guilt clawed at Mr. Chung's gut, turning his insides to lead. His heart thudded loudly in his ears. He'd betrayed Cyrus—the boy he liked, maybe even cared for—to a beautiful monster with cat eyes and a predator's smile.
"Oh?" Father Gordon said slowly. "When I asked if the boy was dead, you said 'not exactly.' What did you mean?"
Chung wiped his face again. Sweat clung to him like a second skin. "Because… because I don't know if he's alive or not."
"What do you mean?" The voice sharpened, the tone growing colder.
Chung hesitated. His eyes flicked around the abandoned church. The dusty pews. The cracked walls. A faded portrait of the Virgin Mary stared down at him, judgmental. He looked back toward the booth and swallowed hard.
"There was this girl," he said. "Came to my shop . She looked ordinary at first—just a pretty face looking for rare books."
"And then?" Father Gordon snapped.
"She was a werewolf!" Chung blurted, voice rising. "I don't know how she found out about me. Not the book business—but the other thing. The relics. The artifacts. The black market trade. I—I don't know how she knew."
"Why would a werewolf want anything from you, Chung?" Father Gordon asked, now eerily calm. "What did she want?"
"My connection to Cyrus," Chung whispered, ashamed. "She wanted information. About him."
"And you gave it to her?"
"I… no. Yes." Chung's voice cracked. "I didn't want to, but… you don't understand. I tried to lie. I did. But her eyes—God, her eyes—and those fangs. She looked like a goddess and a devil at the same time."
"What did you tell her, Chung?" The words came slowly now, like a blade being drawn.
"She asked about Cyrus. His job. His team. Where he lived. If he had family. If he'd ever talked about powers—anything unusual. I told her… everything."
There was a pause.
"You told her all that?" Father Gordon's voice was quiet, but somehow it thundered.
"She offered money. A lot of it. And… you know me, I follow my nose when it smells profit," Chung said with a broken laugh.
Another silence. Longer this time. The sound of pen scratching on paper—or maybe it was just imagination.
"What would a werewolf want with a hunter?" Father Gordon finally muttered. "Why would she want such intimate details?"
"At first, I thought it was revenge," Chung said. "Maybe Cyrus killed someone close to her. A lover, maybe. But something didn't add up."
"Go on."
"She asked about powers. She wanted to know if he had ever displayed… abilities. Things humans aren't supposed to do."
"And does the boy have any?"
Chung hesitated again. Then nodded, more to himself than anyone else. "He can smell them. Tracks them like a bloodhound. Always has. Even as a kid in the orphanage, he'd tell me."
There was a sharp intake of breath.
"Good God," Father Gordon muttered, voice rising for the first time. "Where is he now?"
"I haven't seen him in three days," Chung confessed. "The girl gave me instructions—get him to a farmhouse north of town. Alone. Said it was urgent. I haven't heard from him since."
"He went alone?"
"Yes. Abby was injured, and he'd just lost Gerald. He didn't want to wait. Said he had something to test—something he didn't want anyone to see."
"Damn it!" Father Gordon slammed something on his side of the booth. Chung flinched violently. "You sent him to die, Chung. You spineless bastard."
Chung swallowed hard. "He insisted. I didn't force him. And he… he said something about unlocking a power. I think it was the same thing the werewolf girl was asking about."
A deep silence followed.
Then, quietly: "Do you think he's one of them?"
Chung didn't answer at first. His mind drifted to the boy he'd known for years. The boy who'd made his dusty shop feel like a home sometimes. The boy he'd betrayed.
"No," he said.
But deep down… something twisted in his gut. Doubt.
"Do you think he's dead?"
"No," Chung said firmly. "He's a tough motherfucker."
Father Gordon let out a dry chuckle. "I have a feeling that girl will return to your shop. When she does, I want you to build a relationship with her. A strong one."
Chung blinked. "You want me to…?"
"She will come in handy. Deceit is your trade, after all. Use it."
A slow nod. "Yes… it will be so. No need to worry."
"Good."
More silence. Then:
"If the boy shows up again—alive—inform me immediately. Don't wait for another month. Contact me the moment you see him."
"I will."
"You did well, Chung," Father Gordon finally said, his voice returning to that awful calm. "I'll inform the others about the developments in Victoria Town. Whatever the werewolves are planning, we'll need to stay two steps ahead."
The booth door creaked.
Chung heard the rustle of robes. Then silence.
He was alone in the church once more.