The apartment smelled like blood. Mine. The burn of silver still gnawed at the flesh of my shoulder, and no amount of scrubbing dulled it.
I sat on the edge of the bathtub, shirt torn and discarded on the tiles, knife still within reach on the counter. A cracked mirror leaned against the wall, showing me the mess I'd become: pale skin slick with sweat, jaw clenched, eyes red with fury and fatigue.
My fingers trembled as I dabbed peroxide over the wound. The fizzing sting lit my nerves on fire. I bit down on the towel in my mouth and let the pain run its course. Hunters never fought clean. They didn't care if silver bled you slow before the kill. They wanted it that way.
The wolf's face flickered in my head, unshakable. Not just an animal. It had chosen to act. Chosen to protect. Why?
I tore a strip from an old shirt and wrapped the wound tight, cinching it until my vision dotted black around the edges. The notebook sat on the closed toilet lid, waiting. I reached for it with shaky hands, flipping to a blank page.
One year since you died, Travis. And I'm still running. Still bleeding. Tonight, a wolf saved me. I don't know what that means. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. I keep telling myself coincidence is safer than hope. But it felt like more.
The pen bled ink across the page where my hand faltered. My throat tightened. I snapped the book shut before I could write his name again.
I shoved it back under the mattress. Some words weren't meant to sit in the open.
Across town, the hunter's safehouse throbbed with silence. Every man present avoided the eyes of the figure at the head of the table.
Jareth leaned forward, jaw taut, fingers drumming against the scarred wood. His hair, dark and streaked with premature silver, hung damp across his forehead. His gaze locked on the radio unit sitting uselessly in the middle of the table.
"Two dead," he said flatly. The words weren't a question.
No one answered.
His lips curled into a humorless smile. "That little bitch is mocking us. She thinks she can pick us off, same as she picked my father years ago. She thinks she's untouchable."
He stood abruptly, the legs of his chair scraping harsh against the floor. His voice rose, not to a shout, but to a command that filled the room like a blade at every throat.
"She's wrong."
One of his lieutenants cleared his throat. "Sir, reports mentioned… something else. A wolf. Large. Aggressive. It interfered—"
Jareth slammed his fist down, rattling the radio. "I don't care if she's keeping pets or summoning demons. I want her dead. Do you understand? Dead, and buried where she can't crawl out."
He leaned in close, eyes wild, the candlelight carving deep shadows across his face. "She took my father. She'll pay for every drop of blood she's spilled since. I'll carve her name into the dirt myself if I have to."
Back in the apartment, I pressed my forehead against the cool wall and exhaled slow.
The city outside was restless, sirens rising, drunks shouting, the endless hum of neon buzzing through rain-soaked streets. But all I could hear was the wolf's growl echoing in my chest.
I had survived tonight, but the rules had changed. The hunters weren't going to stop. The wolf wasn't going to stay in the shadows.
And I wasn't sure which one terrified me more.