The fluorescent lights buzzed like dying hornets above the steel table. Leo studied his warped reflection in the handcuff chain – eighteen going on ancient, the bracelet's runes pulsing in time with the wall clock's lethargic ticks. Two hours since the cops scooped him off 53rd Street, three since he'd crushed Joey "Fingers" Malone's kneecaps over a disputed Black Market Nintendo Switch shipment.
"Second-degree assault." Detective Ruiz slapped the file down, the stench of nicotine gum and cortisol rolling off him. "Video shows you threw him through a plate glass window."
Leo flexed his fingers. No blood under the nails, though he distinctly remembered feeling cartilage snap. His healing factor had scrubbed him cleaner than a crime scene cleanup crew. Ruiz's wedding band left a pale indent – divorced three months, drinking Kentucky Rye, carrying a Taurus G3 with silver-jacketed rounds.
The bracelet twitched.
Since when could he smell ballistics?
"Want to explain this?" Ruiz slid a photo across the table – Joey's shattered knee X-ray, the patella split into fractal patterns. "Looks like he got hit by a fucking freight train."
Leo's palms itched. He focused on the interrogation mirror, where his reflection showed the truth – pupils slit vertically, shadows clinging to his frame like funeral veils. The cop's heartbeat thudded in his ears, a stressed metronome syncing with the flickering lights.
"I pushed him," Leo lied. "He tripped."
Ruiz leaned in, coffee breath rancid with betrayal. "Bullshit. The glass exploded outward."
A scream ripped through the precinct.
Not human. Not quite.
The detective's radio crackled. "Code 13 in holding cell B. All units—"
Power died. Emergency lights bathed the room in arterial red. Leo's nostrils flared – blood, yes, but underneath... wet dog fur and ozone. The bracelet burned cold.
Ruiz drew his sidearm. "Stay put, kid."
The door slammed. Leo tested the cuffs – titanium alloy. The chair bolts squealed as he strained, tendons popping.
Mom's voice from childhood: "Stop fighting, Leo. Nice boys don't make scenes."
Metal shrieked. The cuffs snapped clean, leaving molten dents on the table.
Corridor chaos bled through the walls – orders shouted in Russian and Mandarin, gunfire punctuated by guttural snarls. Leo pressed his ear to the interrogation mirror. Behind his reflection, three stories down, something scratched at concrete. Slow. Deliberate.
Skritch-skritch-skritch.
He traced the vibrations to a ventilation grate. The screws came out easy, too easy, as if someone had loosened them from the other side. Crawling through dust and rat droppings, his UV-adjusted eyes caught the claw marks – four parallel gouges in the duct metal, spaced exactly like the scars on his bedroom wall after night terrors.
The precinct basement reeked of industrial cleaner and primal fear. Leo dropped into a storage room stacked with evidence boxes. Case #4471 caught his eye – crime scene photos from Mom's "hit-and-run."
Bloodstains on the asphalt formed a perfect Laguz rune.
Boots clattered upstairs. Leo ducked behind shelves as Ruiz and two SWAT types dragged a thrashing body bag toward the incinerator room. The zipper split – a hand shot out, fingers fused into talons, fur glinting silver under the emergency lights.
"Another fucking dud," Ruiz muttered. "Call Nightwatch for disposal."
The radio crackled. "Suspect escaped interrogation. Caucasian male, 5'11", exhibiting abnormal—"
Cold steel pressed against Leo's neck.
"Don't." The female agent's breath smelled of mint and gun oil. Her D.O.A badge gleamed – Department of Anomalies. "We're here to help."
Behind her, the incinerator roared to life. The creature in the body bag howled, a sound that liquefied Leo's bones. The agent's grip tightened.
"They'll claim you're non-human. Deny citizenship. Dissect you alive." Her thumb brushed his carotid. "Unless you come quietly."
The bracelet flared. Leo's elbow connected with her ribs – crack – but she didn't stagger. Her pupils reflected infrared.
"Clever pup." She smiled, blood trickling from her nose. "But where will you run?"
Down the hall, the incinerator door warped outward. Something colossal and furred pressed against the glowing metal, its silhouette casting claw-shaped shadows.
"They're coming awake," the agent whispered. "And they're hungry."
Sirens wailed outside. Leo bolted through the emergency exit, asphalt tearing at his stolen police-issue boots. Behind him, the precinct exploded in a corona of blue flame, the blast pattern forming a massive Thurisaz rune against the night sky.
In his clenched fist – ripped from the agent's belt during the scuffle – a keycard stamped with coordinates and the vagrant's face.