The hideout reeked of gun oil, stale cigarettes, and the faint copper tang of dried blood. A map of the city was nailed crookedly to the wall, its surface littered with pins, red string, and notes scrawled in a hasty hand. Beneath the buzzing fluorescent lights, three men hunched over the table, their shadows stretching long and jagged across the floor.
"She's like smoke," one of them muttered, slamming his fist down hard enough to rattle the empty beer cans scattered across the surface. "Every time we corner her, she slips right through. It's not natural."
Another, older and broad-shouldered with a scar running from temple to jaw, smirked humorlessly. "She's not natural. Don't forget that part."
Silence followed. Then the door at the far end creaked open. Boots clunked across the floor with steady, deliberate weight. Every head turned.
The man who entered didn't look like the leader of anything at first glance. He wasn't big, wasn't loud. But power radiated from him anyway—sharp and controlled, like a blade kept honed to the point of obsession. His dark hair was slicked back, his coat trimmed at the collar, and his pale eyes gleamed with something that was part fury, part hunger.
"Report," he said simply.
The three men straightened immediately.
"She's fast, Jareth," the scarred one said. "Too fast. We had her boxed in tonight. Three of us, crossbows loaded, silver rounds. She still cut her way out. Didn't even look winded."
"Not to mention," another added nervously, "there was… interference. A wolf. Big one. Came out of nowhere. Went for Rogers like it was starved."
Jareth's jaw tightened. "A wolf?"
"That's what it looked like."
The leader walked to the map, his gloved fingers tracing one of the red strings. He didn't look at them as he spoke, voice flat. "You're making excuses. Wolves don't matter. She matters."
"She's just one bloodsucker, sir," the youngest blurted. "Why do we—"
The backhand came so fast the boy didn't see it coming. He staggered, clutching his mouth, blood already blooming between his fingers.
"She's not 'just one,'" Jareth said softly, dangerously. "She's the one."
The room went still.
Jareth finally turned, eyes burning like frostbitten steel. "Years ago, before any of you knew my name, there was a man. My father. He was a bastard—thief, liar, scum. But he was still mine. And she"—his voice dipped into a growl—"she drained him like trash. Left his body in an alley with the rest of the garbage."
He stepped closer to the map, stabbing a finger at one of the pinned photos. A blurry black-and-white shot of Silver, her hair wild, her eyes shining with hunger.
"I don't care how many men it takes. I don't care how many of us fall. I want her gone."
The scarred hunter swallowed. "So this is… revenge."
Jareth's lips curved into something that might have been a smile, though it was hollow and cruel. "Justice," he corrected. "We don't let monsters walk free. Especially not ones that have already stained their hands with our blood."
He began pacing, slow and measured. "Every time she slips through your fingers, she laughs at me. At us. At the memory of my father. And I won't allow it. She's clever, but clever won't save her. Sooner or later, she'll make a mistake. And when she does…"
He snapped his fingers. The sound echoed sharp in the stale room.
"Bring me her head."
The hunters exchanged uneasy looks but nodded. Orders were orders.
"Sir," the scarred one ventured, "there's talk in the network. Whispers that she's not the only target anymore. That the higher-ups are working on something bigger. A weapon."
Jareth's eyes flicked back to him, narrowing.
"A weapon?"
"Something designed to wipe them all out. Vampires, werewolves, hybrids. Doesn't matter how strong or fast they are—it cuts right through them. Effortless. They're calling it the 'Sunblade.'"
The air thickened. Even the buzzing light above seemed to hesitate.
For the first time, Jareth's mask cracked. The faintest smirk tugged at his mouth. "Good. Let them forge their weapon. Let the world think it can end monsters with steel and fire. But Silver is mine. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Yes, Jareth."
"Crystal clear."
He turned back to the photo, staring at Silver's blurred outline as though he could burn holes through it.
"Run while you can, little leech," he whispered. "I'll chase you to the ends of the earth. You'll never be free."
Across the city, Silver tossed restlessly in her bed, notebook clutched to her chest. The wolf's paw print faded in the dust as moonlight crept higher over the glass.
She didn't know that far below, in the underbelly of the city, her name was being spoken like a curse. She didn't know the scale of the storm gathering for her.
Not yet.
But she would.