The alley reeked of burnt oil and piss.
Kairo kept his hood low and his back against the graffiti-tagged wall. The sky above Harlem was dark, but not because of the night — the moon hadn't risen, and somehow, he could feel it missing, like a heartbeat that had stopped.
A shadow moved.
Not a rat. Too heavy.
He stopped breathing.
They were here again.
Not the usual gangbangers or crooked cops. These ones didn't make sound when they walked. No footsteps. No breath. No smell.
But Kairo could feel them.
They were hunting something.
No… someone.
Him.
A silver light glinted off metal. Fangs? Knives? He couldn't tell. All he knew was that he didn't have claws. No fangs. No howl in his lungs. Just fear. The same fear that made his mother leave him at the doorstep of Saint Anthony's Orphanage at nine years old — after she watched his "wolf form" fail to awaken.
"I'm sorry," she had whispered, pressing a burning symbol into his palm.
He hadn't seen her since.
A claw scraped concrete behind him.
Close.
Too close.
He ran.
But deep down, he already knew — he wasn't supposed to survive the night.