Outside, the day had warmed — a thin, reluctant light. The street smelled of rain on hot pavement and the bakery two doors down where someone had left their back door open. He felt, absurdly, like the moment he was allowed to breathe. Not because the problems were gone, but because for the first time in months he had more than his own ragged hands to hold the rope.
Donna called after him. "And Brendon?"
He turned.
"Pills. Don't forget."
The clinic door sighed shut behind them, sealing the hush back in. Brendon had barely put a foot on the pavement before his phone vibrated again — Robert's name lighting the screen like an alarm.
"Hey! Brendon..." Robert said without preamble. "You need to get to the station. Ms. Rosa has gone ballistic. She's fighting with the officers on protection detail. It's all over Facebook."
"Facebook?" Brendon repeated, because the word was always worse than the actions it described.
"Yeah—" Robert's voice frayed. Someone off-camera shouted; a crash, the rattle of a mic stand. "I'm at the back, Chief's fur is on fire. I gotta go — just get down here. Now."
Brendon felt the blood leave his face. He turned to the two women who had stepped outside with him. Devina's fox face had folded into that polite, slightly amused expression that always made Brendon think she could eat him and smile about it. Donna, the therapist, looked up at him with the kind of disappointment that managed to be maternal and furious at once.
"I have to go," he said, blunt. He didn't ask; he didn't explain. He only wanted to close the space between the station and whatever had invaded it.
Devina's brows lifted. "The town seems allergic to peace," she quipped, then her voice softened. "Go. If you need anything, just call."
Donna caught his sleeve lightly — a quick, practical squeeze. "Be careful. And… Brendon?" Her eyes were small and sharp. For the first time she has called him by his name, this sudden change startles him. She continues, "Keep your hands as human as possible. You know what I mean."
He managed a humorless half-smile. "I'll try."
The cab smelled of stale cigarettes and wet leather. He told the driver to go hot, to burn through the streets. As the car ate the miles, Brendon thumbed his way through social feeds. He typed Rosa's name into the search bar, and the results slapped him in the face: dozens of posts, live streams, hashtags already trending with her name alongside the word scandal. He tapped the most recent live feed.
A young officer's profile popped up — he recognized the face, one of the rookies Tyson had brought in for cheap coverage. The video was grainy, shaking as if filmed under a desk. The text above it made his stomach knot.
"When the person you're supposed to protect is the real monster. #RosaExposed"
He scrolled to a clip that made his stomach flip — a shaky hand-held video of Rosa standing in the lobby, voice raw and rawer still as she unloaded everything she'd been keeping inside. Her words were venom and terror in one breath: officers on the job who hadn't been vetted, messages she'd allegedly received, the "joke" that had made her look terrible online. The post had been set with a caption that implied cover-up and police incompetence.
Brendon swore under his breath. He recognized the rookie's voice in the background of the clip — one of the new crop Tyson had assigned to protective duty. New faces in new uniforms but cheap optics for fame. An officer's mistake could now feed a headline within ten minutes.
"Uhh. Sh!t," he said aloud.
The cab stopped in front of the station. Reporters clustered like stubborn gulls on the stairs. Cameras, microphones, and permanent angles of outrage — all trained on the municipal building as if it were offering confession. He pushed through them, their questions slicing air.
Brendon shoved cash at the driver and leapt out. His height and anthro frame cut a path through the crowd, though microphones still swung toward him, questions like knives slicing through the air:
"Sheriff Wolf! Is Rosa accusing the department of misconduct?"
"Are the rookies really harassing a protected civilian?"
"Did Police Chief Victor Tyson assign untrained men to such a high-profile case?"
He ignored them all, forcing his way up the steps. Inside the lobby where the chaos is boiling hotter. Jessica Rosa Marigold, her makeup streaked and her designer jacket half-slipped from her shoulders, was hurling venom at the nearest officers.
"You're ALL a joke!" she screamed, her voice shrill enough to make several officers flinch. "Protection? Hah! You hand me children in uniforms who can't tell their left hand from a toilet seat! And now — now I'm the villain? You disgusting mutts should all be fired!"
One of the rookies stammered, trying to defend himself, but she wheeled on him, stabbing a manicured finger in his direction. "You — you sent those fake messages, didn't you? Thought it would be funny? Thought it would get clicks, likes, views? You're just another pathetic loser hiding behind a badge!"
Robert was there, sweating buckets as he tried to reason with her. Other officers milled like nervous cattle, unsure if stepping in would make things worse. And behind it all, the unmistakable flash of cameras from reporters who had forced their way just inside the doors.
Brendon's ears pinned back. This was worse than Robert had described. Rosa wasn't only just angry — she was tearing the whole department apart in front of the public eye.
He pushed through the throng, his voice cutting low and sharp: "Ms. Rosa."
She whipped around, eyes blazing, and for a moment, recognition softened her fury. Then it reignited. "You. The famous wolf detective. Come to lecture me too? Or maybe you're here to cover up for your little cubs who tried to ruin me online?"
"Ms. Rosa," he said again, steady but firmer, "listen to me. I know what happened. I have seen the posts. Those messages — they're fake. The officer who sent them will be disciplined. Chief Tyson will see into it."
She laughed bitterly, her voice cracking. "Oh, wonderful! 'Disciplined.' While I get my reputation dragged through mud? Do you have any idea what trending hashtags do to my career? To my safety? You think I need wolves to protect me when you can't even protect your own damn integrity?"
The crowd murmured, cameras clicking. Brendon felt the press of it, the way her words were snowballing into something uncontrollable. He took a slow breath, forcing calm.
"Jessica. Enough. You're safe here. We'll fix this."
"Fix this?" she spat. "You can't fix me. You're all incompetent—"
Her tirade didn't stop. If anything, his calmness enraged her more. She hurled insult after insult, some at the rookies, some at Tyson himself, some at the entire anthro community. Every word was gasoline on the fire.
Brendon's patience snapped.
The growl started low, deep in his chest, unbidden. His claws slid out of his paws with a metallic scrape against the tiled floor. His canines started to grow. His vision tunneled, the edges glowing as his pupils shrank and his irises burned from their steady yellow into molten amber.
The lobby fell silent in an instant.
"BACK OFF." Brendon growled. It was not a voice so much as a low note from inside his ribs. It vibrated the chandeliers. The reporters faltered. Rosa's face was an unreadable mask for a breath. Even the rookies straightened, and for a second no one made a move.
Then the primal well inside him finished rising, and the animal answered. The sound it made was full and old — a deep, rolling thing that carried right through the building and out into the square beyond. It was not meant for words. It was a statement of lineage.
Those nearest felt it in their teeth. A coffee cup jumped from the reception desk and shattered. A poster peeled from the wall. Phones slipped from hands and skittered across the floor as their owners backed away like rabbits. Live feeds tilted as the cameras were jostled. Every breathing thing in the lobby — humans, anthros, hybrids — everyone felt something fundamental reassert itself.
Rosa stopped mid-curse. Her fists hung in the air, knuckles white. For the first time in the morning, her bravado collapsed into something fragile and real. She paled. A thin sound — a sob — leaked out of her, covered immediately with a choking sound like a laugh that wasn't funny.
Brendon's chest swelled and fell. The hall's air tasted like electricity and old earth. Being in that state was a dangerous currency: it gained attention and bought far more fear than respect. He could feel his muscles singing under his skin, every sinew strung tight. The urge to move — to assert, to protect or whether to destroy — thrummed in his jaw.
He wanted, almost possessed by a single need, to silence the cameras. To lay claim to their intrusion with teeth and claws. The wolf in him smelled their plastic and metal and hunger for spectacle and wanted to tear it out.
But he didn't.