(Third Person).
The office still felt heavy with Draven's voice, even after the call ended.
Mayor Brackham sat rigidly behind his vast oak desk, his knuckles white where they gripped the armrests of his chair.
The quiet hum of the air conditioning barely covered the quiet grind of his teeth.
"Incompetent," Draven had called him—coldly, with the same dismissive arrogance a wolf might give an insect before crushing it.
And worse, the Alpha had threatened open retaliation.
'Damn that wolf,' Brackham seethed.
How dare Draven speak to him like that? The ruler of Duskmoor, the man who had kept this fragile city from tearing itself apart during economic ruin, crime waves, and rising supernatural tensions.
And yet, that overgrown mutt had dared to insult him… on his own soil.
Just then, there was a polite knock.
The door opened, and his secretary—a slight woman with sharp glasses and a notebook pressed to her chest—stepped in quietly.
