The street was dead quiet.
Kai stood in the cold wash of moonlight, the dead werewolf sprawled across the pavement like some grotesque nightmare. Its fur glistened wet, the metallic stench of blood seeping into the air. The body looked too big, too wrong to belong in the human world.
And if anyone found it here…
His chest heaved as panic took root. Someone would notice. Someone always noticed. If they found this thing, they'd ask questions—questions Kai had no answers for.
His hands shook as he bent down, fingers brushing against the beast's coarse, blood-matted fur. His body screamed in protest at the thought of touching it, but he forced himself to grip the corpse by its arm, pulling with all the strength his battered body had left.
The weight was immense. The smell unbearable. He gagged, teeth clenched, and dragged the body a few feet toward the shadows between two buildings. His breath came sharp and ragged, sweat stinging the cuts across his chest.
Just a little farther, he told himself. Hide it. Make it disappear.
"—That's enough."
The voice cut the night clean in half.
Kai froze. His fingers slipped from the corpse, his body locking tight.
From the darkness of the corner, a figure stepped forward. Not the one with the rifle—this one was different. Taller. Broader shoulders. Their face obscured by the hood of a long coat, but their posture radiated ownership, command.
"That's our work," the figure said evenly, each word crisp, deliberate. "Don't take that."
Kai stumbled back a step, pulse racing, every nerve screaming. His eyes darted between the figure and the corpse, his mouth dry. "Wh—what do you mean, your work? What is this?"
The hooded figure tilted their head slightly, as if studying him. Moonlight caught on something metallic beneath the cloak—a badge, or maybe a weapon. The details were swallowed by shadow.
"Go home, Voss," the figure said. His name again, like a blade pressed against his throat. "This isn't yours to carry."
Kai's stomach twisted. Every instinct screamed at him to demand answers, to push back, to fight—but the weight of the figure's voice crushed those impulses before they formed.
He took another shaky step back. Then another.
And the figure simply watched, unmoving, until Kai turned and forced his legs to move faster, almost running down the street.
His mind roared with questions. Who were they? How did they know his name? How many people were out here watching him, waiting for him to fail?
The night swallowed him as he stumbled toward the cracked, sagging outline of his house. The familiar shape should have been comforting, but dread clung to him like a second skin.
He reached the crooked gate, his breaths shallow, each step louder than it should've been. He pulled his hood lower, glancing over his shoulder—nothing. The street looked empty. Dead.
And then—sirens.
Faint at first, then swelling, cutting through the night air. Police sirens, echoing from somewhere down the block.
Kai froze, hand on the peeling wooden gate. His chest clenched tight. Someone must have heard the gunshots. Someone must have reported them.
The image flashed in his mind—officers turning the corner, lights painting his face, questions he couldn't answer. The rifle. The beast. The blood.
His throat constricted, his heart slamming in his chest.
Not here. Not now.
He shoved the gate open, the hinges groaning like they wanted to betray him. He slipped inside quickly, slamming it shut behind him. His feet scraped against the cracked path as he rushed to the door, fumbling for the keys with trembling hands.
The sirens wailed louder for a moment, then softened as they moved farther down another street. Still too close.
Kai finally managed to shove the key into the lock. The door creaked, its hinges sighing with the same tired weight they always carried. He stepped inside, slamming it shut and twisting the lock tight.
For a moment, he stood there in the darkness of his home, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his back, the faint echo of the sirens still ringing in his ears.
Safe.
But not really.
Never really.
The shadows in the corners seemed deeper tonight, the cracks in the walls more jagged. Every drip of water from the ceiling sounded like a footstep. Every creak of wood whispered like a breath too close to his ear.
Kai pressed his back against the door, sliding down until he sat on the warped floorboards, head buried in his hands. His knife lay heavy in his pocket, the coin heavier still, pulsing like a heartbeat that wasn't his own.
He had survived again. But for how long?
The world outside wasn't the same anymore. And neither was he.
The house did not feel like home anymore.
Kai sat in the corner of his bedroom, knees drawn to his chest, unable to will himself into the sagging bed. The cracked plaster on the walls seemed to lean toward him, as though the house itself wanted to swallow him whole. The drip-drip-drip from the leaking ceiling fell in maddening rhythm, each sound echoing like footsteps he couldn't place.
Every creak in the wood above made him tense. Every sigh of the wind through the cracked window felt like a whisper too close.
Sleep was impossible.
He tried lying down once, staring at the ceiling, but the moment his eyelids grew heavy, he saw the beast's face again—the teeth, the weight, the heat of its breath before it tore him open. He saw the stranger's rifle, silver tearing through the night. He heard that other voice, the hooded figure claiming the corpse as theirs.
And each time, his eyes snapped open, his body jolting upright in a cold sweat.
By the time the faint gray of dawn touched the window, Kai hadn't slept at all. His body ached, his mind burned, but routine pulled at him. Work. Something normal. Something human.
He forced himself to wash his face with the icy trickle from the bathroom sink, then dressed in the same tired uniform. His reflection in the cracked mirror made him pause—his eyes looked different. Darker. Sharper. Like something had been peeled back and couldn't be put together again.
He avoided looking too long.
The walk to work felt longer than usual. The streets carried the leftover chill of night, but the sky above was bright and indifferent, painted in soft hues of morning. People moved around him—men with briefcases, women clutching bags, kids dragging themselves to school—but their voices and laughter seemed distant, muffled, unreal.
Kai kept his hood up, shoulders hunched, trying to fold himself small. Every shadow looked like it might move. Every sudden sound made his chest tighten.
As he turned a corner near a closed café, voices reached him. Low, hurried. He slowed without meaning to, ears straining. Two men leaned against the wall near the alley, their faces drawn, their whispers sharp.
"I'm telling you, I saw it," one hissed, his eyes darting around nervously. "Big, hairy, like some kind of monster. Thing was standing right in the middle of the damn street."
The other snorted, shaking his head. "You were high, Marcus. Probably some drunk in a fur coat. Or one of those street performers trying to make a quick buck."
"No, no—listen!" Marcus's voice cracked with urgency. "This wasn't no costume. Its eyes… Christ, its eyes were glowing. And then—then there was a shot. Loud as hell. Thing dropped. I swear to God, it was a gun."
The other man rolled his eyes. "So what? Some idiot shot a stray dog. Happens all the time."
"It wasn't a dog!" Marcus snapped, his voice rising before lowering again at a sharp glance from a passerby. He leaned closer, whispering, "I saw it bleed. Saw it hit the ground. And the cops showed up, man. Sirens and everything."
Kai's blood ran cold. His legs slowed, his head ducked, but his ears strained harder.
"Yeah? Then where's the body?" the skeptic asked. "Huh? You hear about anyone dragging a big monster out of the street? You see it on the news? No. Because it wasn't real."
Marcus shook his head violently, hands trembling. "They took it. I don't know who, but they took it before anyone else could see. I swear, Paul, I'm not crazy."
Paul laughed under his breath. "Right. Not crazy. Just high as usual."
Their voices faded as Kai moved past, heart hammering. He didn't dare look back, didn't dare let them see his face.
The words clawed at him: They took it.
His mind replayed the hooded figure's command—That's enough. That's our work. Don't take that.
Who were they? And how much did they control?
Kai's steps quickened, his breath shallow. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, fingers brushing the burning coin. It pulsed against his skin, a reminder, a tether.
By the time the squat, gray building of his workplace came into view, Kai's nerves were frayed thin. The chatter of the street clung to him, the whispers circling in his head.
He pushed the door open, stepping into the stale fluorescent hum of the office, but the feeling didn't lift. If anything, it sank deeper.
He wasn't just being watched. He was being hunted.
And somewhere, someone was making sure no one else ever learned the truth.
The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, a thin electric whine that grated against Kai's nerves. The convenience store smelled of instant noodles, disinfectant, and damp cardboard from the stockroom.
Kai slipped behind the counter, his uniform shirt wrinkled from the restless night. The glass of the fridge doors caught his reflection—pale face, dark circles under his eyes, hair hanging loose over his brow. He looked like a ghost manning a register.
"Morning, zombie."
He turned. Juno, one of the part-timers, leaned on a mop, grinning at him. She was barely twenty, sharp-tongued, always humming to herself. Today, though, her grin faltered when she really looked at him.
"You okay? You look like hell."
Kai forced a small nod, voice low. "Didn't sleep."
She tilted her head, studying him a moment longer before shrugging. "Fair. This place sucks the life outta you anyway."
In the stockroom, Ramon was unloading boxes. Mid-thirties, built like a boulder, he was usually humming old songs while he worked. Today, though, his humming cut short when Kai entered to grab a crate. Ramon squinted.
"You sick or something? You're cold, man. Colder than usual."
Kai muttered, "I'm fine," and hauled the crate away before Ramon could press further.
The customers noticed too. A middle-aged woman avoided his eyes as she set her items on the counter. A man paying for cigarettes muttered, "Creepy kid," under his breath, though Kai heard it clear.
By the time the manager showed up, Kai's nerves were threadbare.
Mr. Dela Cruz waddled in from the back office, his tie crooked, belly stretching the buttons of his shirt. He had a permanent scowl etched into his face, the kind of man who thought raising his voice was the only way to be heard.
"Voss!" he barked, loud enough that two customers turned. "Why are you moving like you're in a funeral? Stock faster, smile at the damn customers, and for God's sake fix your shirt. You're scaring people."
Kai clenched his jaw. His hands tightened on the counter until his knuckles went white.
"I said, do you hear me?"
The room seemed to press in. The buzzing lights, the murmuring customers, the pounding of his own heart. For a fleeting second, he saw the werewolf's face over the manager's. The weight of its claws. The stink of its breath. His knife slipping into flesh.
"I hear you," Kai muttered, forcing the words out.
Dela Cruz stared at him, waiting for some sign of rebellion. But Kai stayed still, his face unreadable.
Finally, the manager grunted and stormed off, muttering about lazy clerks.
Juno exchanged a glance with Ramon. Both of them whispered when they thought Kai couldn't hear.
"Something's wrong with him."
"Yeah. Feels like he's… different."
Kai pretended not to notice.
---
Somewhere else, far from the hum of convenience store lights…
A long table stretched beneath dim lamps, its surface covered in maps, files, and silver-etched weapons. The air smelled faintly of candle wax and iron.
Around the table sat five figures, their faces blurred in shadow, their voices low but firm.
"He's marked," one said. The tone was clinical, detached. "First blood has been spilled."
Another leaned forward, fingers steepled. "And already hunted. The wolf found him, nearly ended him. He survived."
"That makes him dangerous."
"Or useful."
A scoff. "Useful? He's untrained. Ignorant. He'll get himself killed in days."
Silence stretched a moment. The leader, seated at the head of the table, finally spoke. Their voice was calm, steady, but carried weight that silenced the others.
"Survival against the wolf was no accident. He is chosen. Whether by fate, or by time itself, remains to be seen."
The word time lingered, heavy.
Another voice, quieter, almost reverent, added, "The coin is awake. I can feel it from here."
The leader's eyes narrowed, gaze piercing the dark. "Then we watch. We wait. If he falls, he was never meant to rise. But if he endures…"
Their hand tapped the table once, final. "…then he will come to us."
The lamps flickered, shadows twisting against the walls. No more was said.
---
Back in the store, Kai stacked cans mechanically, his movements precise but hollow. Each clang of metal against metal echoed louder than it should.
He could feel it—the whispers behind his back, the stares that lingered too long, the world pressing closer.
Everywhere he turned, he was being seen.
And yet, no one was telling him why.