Rain dripped from the rusted fire escapes above, pooling around my boots. I pressed my hand to the fresh bullet wound in my side — deep, mean, probably poisoned if Sloan really wanted to be sure I wouldn't crawl back. Damn him. Damn the Loom. Damn the Faternity and its lies.
My breath rattled in my chest as I staggered down the alley. Bricks scraped my shoulder, my vision swimming. I had killed for them, bled for them, given them every last good piece of my soul. For what? To be branded a traitor by the same machine I trusted to tell me who deserved to die?
I should have seen it sooner. The threads were twisted, manipulated — Sloan's name should have come up years ago. I had the proof now, but what good did it do when I was bleeding out behind a dumpster like last week's trash?
Thunder rumbled overhead. A dog barked somewhere far off. My fingers slipped on the wet bricks as I tried to stay upright. I could feel my heartbeat in my teeth. My gun was gone — torn from my hand in the last scrap with Sloan's dogs. I was alone. Almost.
I heard them before I saw them: three sets of footsteps echoing at the alley mouth. Crisp, confident, cutting through the rain like a blade. I tried to draw myself up, but the blood loss pulled me down like chains.
I caught the shapes — tall, sharp silhouettes moving toward me. A young man, broad shouldered. A woman at his side, cold as moonlight. Another figure, cocky swagger, almost bouncing on his heels.
Not Sloan's dogs. Not the Faternity's. Someone else.
My vision blurred. I tried to lift my chin, to greet my hunters or my saviors — I couldn't tell yet. My lips cracked as I forced the word out.
"Who... who are you...?"
No answer. Just the echo of footsteps coming closer, and the warmth leaking from my side into the dirty rain. I hoped — for once — I wasn't alone when the dark came down.
I came to in a haze of pain and warmth. For a heartbeat, I thought I was dead — until the burning hit me. A thousand needles stabbing every nerve under my skin.
I tried to thrash, but heavy hands pressed me down. The liquid sloshed up around my shoulders — thick, hot, clinging like honey. The wax bath. The Faternity's secret trick to stitch a butchered assassin back together.
Voices drifted over me — clear, sharp, unfamiliar.
"He's coming around," one said — young, calm. Authority in every syllable.
"Good," a second voice — a woman, cold as ice, but warm hands holding my face steady.
"Lucky bastard," a third voice muttered. Cocky. Amused. "If we left him in that alley, Sloan would've scooped up the pieces."
I forced my eyes open. The young man stood over me — dark hair, calculating eyes. He didn't wear a suit. He wore a leather jacket, sleeves rolled, a small scar at his temple. Next to him, the woman — sharp lines, frost in her gaze, but a softness when she met the young man's eyes. Behind them, the third one — grinning, boyish, restless energy.
"Where... am I...?" I croaked.
"Safe," the leader said. "Safe enough. You'll live."
I tried to sit up. Pain spiked, sharp as razors. The woman's hand pressed my chest gently but firmly.
"Stay down, Cross," she murmured. "This bath will stitch you back together, but only if you don't fight it."
"How do you know my name?" I rasped.
The leader's eyes flickered. "We know plenty. Enough to know Sloan's name came up on the Loom, and you tried to do something about it."
I froze. "How do you—"
"Rest," he said. "You're safe from Sloan. For now."
I looked at him — at all three. Wolves in human skin. I saw it now. Not Sloan's dogs. Not the Loom's slaves.
Something new. Something free.
The wax closed around me, searing the poison from my blood. In the corner of my vision, I saw them watch — the wolves who saved me from the butcher I once called brother.
I sank into the burning dark, hoping I'd wake up to fight Sloan.
When my eyes drag open, the concrete ceiling above blurs, the city's night hum vibrating through battered ribs. Shapes loom. Three shadows — not men. Wolves. The stories we whispered about assassins who hunted the hunters.
"Who are you really?" I rasp, voice shredded like old paper.
Jon's boots scrape closer. His eyes — there's a cold finality in them, like a blade dipped in fire. "The Wolves. The monsters assassins fear. The blade that balances the Loom when it lies."
Draco sits perched on an overturned crate, spinning a knife, grinning like the devil on break. "Congratulations — you're the first to see us and keep breathing. Mostly."
"Why help me?" I croak. The air tastes of iron and lies.
Jon kneels, forearm braced on his knee. "Because Sloan infected the Loom. It spins death for profit now. That breaks the pact. If the Loom breaks, everything breaks."
I force my battered lungs to drag air. "How do you know about the Loom?" I spit. "How do you know me?"
Draco chuckles, knife flicking between fingers. "You think the Fraternity's the only ghost in the shadows? You think you're the only sharp edge? Fate has other hands. We're one."
Daphne's voice slices through the stale air — calm, lethal. "You want to salt the earth. But if you burn the Loom, you burn what keeps the chaos at bay. You burn innocents with the rot. Better to carve the cancer out and keep the heart beating."
"I was going to kill them all," I snarl, raw truth scraping my throat.
Jon's stare flares. "And Sloan would twist your son into your bullet. You think he won't?"
A freezing fist clutches my gut. "How the hell do you know about him?"
Jon's jaw ticks. "Because that's how corruption works. We've watched. Sloan's not above using blood to poison blood."
Draco's tone softens just a hair. "You kept your boy clear of this shit. But if you corner Sloan, he'll use what you love. He'll make the kid kill you thinking he's the hero."
"He doesn't know who I am," I choke. My fists pound the floor. "He's normal — he's safe."
Jon grips my shoulder, an iron brand. "Then keep him that way. Hunt the traitors. Cut out the rot. We'll drag your boy clear if they drag him in. And if Sloan tries? We're the fire he chokes on."
My breath shudders. "Swear it. Swear it's not more lies."
Jon clasps my wrist — old warrior's promise. "Always."
Silence drags out — heavy, thick with oaths unsaid. The Wolves do not lie.
"I'll hunt them," I whisper. "I'll bleed them."
Draco laughs sharp, eyes wild. "Good. Make the traitors piss themselves."
Daphne's frostbite smile ghosts across her lips. "Make the Loom spin true again."
"Who are you people?" The question tears free again — because my brain refuses the truth.
Jon stands, straight as judgment. "Balance. Teeth. Family."
Draco flips his knife once more — thunk. "Contact's in your phone. We find out Weasley gets dragged? We'll tear the Fraternity apart brick by brick."
I nod, every muscle screaming. "I…thank you."
Jon's grin is pure wolf. "Don't thank us. Thank yourself for not dying tonight, and for remaining loyal to the loom."
And as they slip into the dark, my heart kicks alive again — because for the first time since the Loom lied to me, I'm not alone.
----
The flickering hum of old pharmacy lights. I see him — Wesley — my boy. Glasses askew, hands shaking as he clutches a prescription he doesn't really need. He doesn't see me yet — the father who was never there.
Wesley turned back around as I ducked out of sight to find Fox leaning against the wall and watching him, standing uncomfortably close. He stared at her like a deer in the headlight as she watched him carefully.
His hair was tousled from too much time spent running his hands through it and the bags under his eyes complimented his sickly skin tone perfectly.
You could almost feel the insecurities and misery drip off him. For a second, Fox actually felt sad for him or so I thought when I saw her eyes. Just for a second, though.
Wesley continued to stare at her with wide eyes and jaw slightly agape as Fox leaned against the counter, looking effortlessly breathtaking. She continued to watch him silently, looking as confident and intimidating as he did insecurely and weak.
"I'm sorry." He stuttered awkwardly.
"You apologize too much." Fox stated flatly.
Wesley stared at her for another moment, feeling even more awkward then he normally did around people, and shifted his feet before shrugging insecurely, the way he always did in similar situations.
"Well, I'm sorry about that."
Fox wasn't one for small talk. She studied him as he fidgeted, shoving money across the desk to the pharmacist as he returned with Wesley's meds. A slight smirk appeared on her lips as she watched him but she quickly shut it off. "I knew your father."
Wesley took the information in without looking at her as he stuffed the change in his thin wallet. Finally, he turned toward her. This time, he no longer gazed at her awkwardly or uncomfortably.
Instead he looked at her like she was insane. "My father left the week I was born, so…" he trailed, off looking down.
Fox took a breath. "You're father died yesterday on the rooftop of the metropolitan building. Sorry."
Wesley spent a second looking at her astonished before laughing in disbelief. "Look, the liquor aisle is just over there so if you want to go…"
This time, Fox interrupted him. "Your father was one of the greatest assassins who ever lived. The man who killed him is behind you."
With that, Fox pulled out her handgun, grabbed Wesley by the collar of his shirt, and whipped him across the aisle
I mutter under my breath: I'm sorry, kid. Not yet.
------
The hunt has begun — fate's cruel wheel spinning in fire and glass.
After the pharmacy chaos, Cross leans against a shadowy brick wall, phone pressed to his ear. The Wolves answer — Jon's voice, cold but steady.
"He's dragged in," Cross rasps. "Get my son out."
Jon's tone is iron. "No. Let the Fraternity mold him. Sloan will use him to flush you out, Cross. And when he's done? He'll kill Wesley himself."
Cross exhales, pain etched in every word. "So I let them make him a killer?"
"You let them make him strong enough to survive," Jon says. "When the time comes, we'll cut Sloan's strings."
Cross closes his eyes. "Then I pray you're right."
There's a faint click — Draco's voice joins in, amused and lethal: "Consider it insurance, Cross."
A tiny parcel drops through his mailbox later that night — a small black pendant, warm to the touch. A note reads: One use. For when the wolves can't reach you in time.
Cross clutches it, whispering, "Thank you," before slipping it over his neck. The hunt continues — and he's not alone anymore.
Time Skip,
The cart dropped, pulling both me and Wesley inside, as it crashed into the cliff wall and wedged itself in between both walls.
Fox, who had just barely made it inside the cart and climbed in by the time Wesley had been saved by me, stayed hidden behind a seat as Wesley made his way to my side, pointing his gun at the me.
Fox focused on catching her breath and calming her heartbeat, ripping the fabric of her pants to examine her bloodied thigh until something I said caught her attention.
"Everything they told you is a lie." I croaked.
"You are my son."
"Is it true?" Wesley asked when he saw her.
Tell me he lied Wesley silently begged. Tell me he lied and I didn't just tried kill my father. Tell me
"Yes." Fox answered, not knowing what else to say. As she unwillingly began to see things in a new light, things began to make sense. Why would a Fraternity member go rogue? What would he get for killing the good guys?
"Why did you make me do this?" Wesley asked hoarsely.
"Because you are the only person he wouldn't kill." Fox answered, hiding her emotions behind a flat voice or so I thought she is.
"You knew god dammit." Wesley whispered, almost to himself. "You knew the entire time."
"Well, his name came up," Fox said coldly, "And so did yours."
Wesley didn't wait to hear any more before he shot the window out from under him and sent himself, and me plunging into the river below.
My fingers clutch the pendant during mid fall. A soft blue light, a searing pain. Torn flesh knits, torn muscle weaves whole. I gasps — alive again.
He drags myself to the riverbank griping Wesley's collar. With every ounce of strength, I hauled my unconscious son free.
In a safehouse hidden beneath the city, I laid Wesley on a battered cot. I brushes dripping hair from Wesley's eyes, blood and rain mingling on my palm.
"You're my son. I'm sorry for everything, but this ends soon."
Outside, thunder rolls — the Wolves are waiting.