The air inside the warehouse is thick. Metallic. Wrong.
Wren's voice came through my comm earlier, flat and tense.
"Tip from RPB two gangs meeting near the docks. Could be a weapons trade. Sending coordinates."
That was an hour ago. Now it's just silence and the smell of blood.
I drop through a cracked skylight, landing on a steel beam above the main floor. My boots creak against rusted metal. The air's cold enough to bite through my suit.
Below me bodies. Dozens of them.
I close my eyes, let my vision adjust. When I open them again, the world shifts. Green light floods my sight, and the shadows pull back. I see everything.
Blood everywhere.
Men torn open. Some slumped against walls, others sprawled mid-motion. I drop to the ground, boots splashing through puddles that used to be people.
Gang symbols on their jackets rival crews. Vex and Crucible remnants. Should've been a meeting. Instead, it's a massacre.
I kneel beside one body. His chest is split clean through. The gashes are deep too deep.
Claw marks.
Four, sometimes three, in most animals.
But these? Five. Like a hand. A human hand.
I look around the walls are scarred, bent inward. Heavy damage, like something big exploded from inside.
My stomach knots. For the first time in a long time
"Wren," I say into the comm, voice low. "I need the detective. Now."
Fifteen minutes later, headlights cut through the fog outside. I drop from a rafter to the cracked asphalt as Detective Shroud's unmarked car rolls to a stop. She steps out, coat half-buttoned, hair messy pulled out of sleep. A younger cop gets out after her, wide-eyed and pale.
"Okay," she says, annoyed already. "Why am I out here on my night off?"
"Because this isn't normal," I say.
Her gaze narrows. "That's what you said last time."
"This time's different."
Shroud exhales through her nose, nodding for the rookie to stay close.
"This is Officer Kellan. Ant, for short. He begged to tag along. Don't make me regret it."
Ant grins nervously. "Wait, is that really"
"Yes," she snaps. "That's the Luna Wing. Close your mouth before bugs fly in."
He shuts up fast, eyes wide behind the flashlight beam.
We step into the warehouse together. The smell hits them instantly — a mix of copper, decay, and something else underneath.
Shroud covers her nose with her sleeve. "God…"
Ant gags quietly.
"You get used to it," I say, though I never really have.
Shroud shines her light on a body. Her tone shifts to business. "You didn't do this, right?"
"No," I reply. "It was like this when I got here."
"Any idea who?"
"Not yet. But it wasn't human."
She crouches beside a corpse, tracing one of the gashes with her gloved hand. "Claw marks."
"Five fingers," I add. "Like a person."
She glances at me she's thinking the same thing I am.
Ant's flashlight flickers across the far wall. "Uh, Detective?"
We turn.
He's pointing toward the back corner. There's a metal structure half-collapsed under debris a cage. Ten feet tall, bolted to the floor, reinforced with steel plating.
"What the hell…" Shroud mutters, walking over.
I follow, inspecting the edges. The door is ripped off from the inside. The bars are bent outward, warped.
"This is military-grade," I say, crouching to study it. "Containment-grade. Something that was never supposed to get out."
Ant kneels beside me, shining the light closer. "Sir, there's a nameplate."
He wipes away the grime. Letters emerge, etched in dull metal.
PROJECT GREYHOWL
I stare at it, the word sinking like a stone in my chest.
"Greyhowl," I whisper.
Shroud looks at me. "You know what that means?"
I shake my head slowly. "Not yet."
We walk the perimeter in silence. The walls bear bullet holes, but none near the cage. Whoever broke out never took a round.
"What's your gut say?" Shroud asks.
"That whatever did this didn't come here for the gangs. It came here because it was kept here."
Ant looks around. "So what, some kind of experiment? Like… mutant stuff?"
Shroud shoots him a glare, but I answer.
"Not mutant. Soldier."
They both glance at me.
"This place was a trap," I continue. "The gangs thought they were meeting for a trade. Someone set them up. And whatever was locked in that cage" I pause, staring at the claw marks again. "was the real weapon."
Shroud stands, brushing dust from her coat. "I'll get a forensic team down here. Quietly. RPB doesn't need this leaking to the press."
Ant hesitates before following her out. He glances back at me, nervous curiosity in his eyes. "You think that thing's still around?"
I look toward the busted door, the trail of clawed footprints leading into the darkness beyond.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "I think it is."
Outside, the air feels colder. The fog thickens, curling around the empty streets.
Shroud leans against the car, lighting a cigarette. "You ever get tired of this?"
"Every day."
She exhales smoke, staring at the warehouse. "Still. You keep showing up."
"Someone has to."
A pause. Then: "You really think this 'Greyhowl' thing ties to Vex?"
"Not directly. But it fits his pattern. He loves chaos that hides a bigger move."
Shroud nods. "Then whatever this was… it's the first move."
I turn away, eyes drawn back toward the shadows beyond the warehouse. For a second, I swear I see something move a silhouette in the mist. Massive. Watching.
When I blink, it's gone.
My comm buzzes softly in my ear. Wren's voice crackles through. "Hey, you still breathing?"
"Yeah," I say. "But I think we just found something worse than the gangs."
"Define worse," she mutters.
"Something that was locked away for a reason."
"Want me to run a name?"
"Greyhowl."
There's silence for a few seconds on her end.
"Okay," she says finally. "That's… not in any public record. Might take time."
"Take all the time you need," I reply. "Whatever this is it's not done."
Shroud and Ant climb into their car. As they drive off, I stay behind, standing in the pale glow of the streetlight.
The warehouse looms behind me like a tomb.
I walk back to the cage, run my gloved hand across the twisted steel, the cold metal humming faintly with leftover energy something unnatural.
A growl echoes faintly in the distance, carried by the wind. Low. Guttural.
For a moment, the air feels alive again like the city itself is holding its breath.
Then silence.
I look at the nameplate one more time.
PROJECT GREYHOWL.