The patrol route through Portland's industrial district was supposed to be routine.
Monroe and a young Fuchsbau recruit named Thomas were checking on refugee safe houses, confirming occupants were settled, documenting any concerns for the weekly council review. Standard operations that had become normal since the Pack's structure solidified.
I learned about the ambush when Monroe's emergency signal hit my phone.
The location coordinates placed him in an abandoned warehouse complex—the kind of place that should have been empty, that our intelligence said was clear. By the time I arrived, the sounds of combat were already echoing off rusted metal walls.
Four Hundjäger had Monroe cornered behind a shipping container. Thomas crouched beside him, wounded, terrified, his Fuchsbau instincts screaming at him to run. The smart play for Monroe would have been to abandon the recruit—Blutbaden could escape situations that would kill other Wesen.
He wasn't running.
"Stay behind me." Monroe's voice carried across the warehouse, calm despite the circumstances. "They'll have to go through me to reach you."
"There are four of them—"
"I know." His woge surfaced—red eyes, extended features, the predator that centuries of Grimm hunting had taught every Wesen to fear. "I've survived worse."
He probably hadn't. Four Hundjäger working as a coordinated pack could take down almost any single opponent. But he didn't move, didn't retreat, didn't do anything except stand between Thomas and death.
I hit the Hundjäger from behind.
[COMBAT INITIATED: HUNDJÄGER SQUAD (4)]
[IRON FLESH: ACTIVE]
[TACTICAL ADVANTAGE: SURPRISE]
The first one died before he knew I was there—sword through his spine, severing the connection between brain and body. The second turned, weapon rising, and took three bullets to my chest that the Iron Flesh absorbed without effect.
His expression when I didn't fall was almost worth the ambush.
My sword opened his throat before he could adjust his aim.
The remaining two Hundjäger abandoned their assault on Monroe, recognizing the greater threat. Their coordination was impressive—flanking movements, covering fire, the tactical discipline of professional soldiers.
I didn't give them time to use it.
The Reaper combat instincts guided my movements, reading attack patterns before they developed. One Hundjäger committed to a lunge that I sidestepped; my blade found his kidney on the way past. The last one tried to retreat, to escape, to carry information back to whoever had sent them.
Monroe caught him.
The Blutbad's fury was controlled but absolute—thirty years of discipline channeled into violence that left nothing for questions. By the time I reached them, the Hundjäger was dead.
"Thomas." Monroe was already moving to the wounded Fuchsbau. "Stay with me. Help is coming."
The young recruit was shaking—blood loss, shock, the trauma of his first real combat. But he was alive. Because Monroe had protected him.
[COMBAT COMPLETE: HUNDJÄGER SQUAD ELIMINATED]
[CASUALTIES: THOMAS (WOUNDED - MODERATE)]
[PACK BOND: DEMONSTRATED UNDER COMBAT CONDITIONS]
"He needs Scalpel." I pulled out my phone. "I'll call for extraction."
"How did they know our route?" Monroe's voice was steady, but something dangerous lurked beneath. "This was supposed to be random. Patrol assignment came out this morning."
"Someone leaked it."
"Who?"
The answer walked out of the shadows.
Kelly Burkhardt moved like a ghost—silent, controlled, the measured steps of someone who'd survived decades of hunting. Her silver eyes found mine across the warehouse.
"Me." She stopped ten feet away, hands visible but clearly ready for violence. "I leaked the patrol route to Verrat intelligence. Through channels they trusted."
Monroe's woge flickered—rage warring with confusion. "You set us up? You almost got Thomas killed!"
"I tested you." Kelly's voice was flat. "I needed to know if the Grimm's pet monsters would actually fight for each other, or if they'd scatter the moment things got dangerous."
"Thomas isn't a pet—"
"I know that now." She turned to face Monroe directly. "I expected you to run. Leave the recruit, save yourself, prove that Wesen loyalty only extends as far as self-interest. Instead, you stayed. Fought. Protected him when every instinct should have told you to flee."
Monroe's anger didn't fade, but something else joined it. Recognition.
"You were watching. The whole time."
"The whole time." Kelly moved toward us, her posture shifting from combat-ready to something more neutral. "Sixteen minutes of combat. Four professional Hundjäger who should have overwhelmed you. And you didn't leave."
"He's Pack." Monroe said it simply. "That means something."
"I'm beginning to understand that." Kelly's attention shifted to me. "And you. Arriving within minutes of the distress signal. Engaging without hesitation. Fighting alongside a Blutbad like it was natural."
"It is natural." I wiped blood from my sword. "That's what you're not understanding, Kelly. This isn't an experiment. It's not a strategy or a manipulation. We protect each other because that's who we are now."
"Grimms don't—"
"This Grimm does."
The warehouse fell silent. Somewhere in the distance, sirens—Portland PD responding to reports of gunfire. We needed to move.
"Thomas needs medical attention." I broke the standoff. "We can continue this conversation somewhere else."
Kelly didn't argue. She helped Monroe carry the wounded Fuchsbau to my car, her movements efficient, her expression thoughtful.
Later that evening, after Thomas was stable and Monroe had calmed down, Kelly found me on the Spice Shop roof.
She carried a bottle of bourbon—old, expensive, the kind of thing someone kept for celebrations or funerals.
"I was wrong." She poured two glasses without asking if I wanted one. "Not about everything. Not about the dangers of what you're doing. But about whether it was real."
"The Pack isn't a trick."
"I know that now." She handed me a glass. "Monroe should have run. By every calculation, every survival instinct, every rule I've ever known—he should have abandoned that recruit and lived to fight another day. Instead, he stayed."
"That's what Pack means."
"That's what family means." Kelly drank deeply. "My son's lucky you exist. You're changing what being a Grimm means."
I shook my head. "I'm just surviving. The meaning changes itself."
"That's not true." She refilled her glass. "You made choices. Built something. Created an alternative to the old ways that everyone told you was impossible." Her voice softened slightly. "Nick is watching you, you know. Wondering if your methods could work for him."
"Nick has his own path. I can't walk it for him."
"No. But you're showing him it's possible to walk a different one."
The bourbon was good—smoky, complex, the kind of taste that rewarded attention. We drank in silence, watching Portland's lights spread below us.
"I'm not offering alliance." Kelly's voice was careful. "I'm still evaluating, still deciding. But I won't work against you anymore. And if something threatens what you've built—something you can't handle alone—I might be willing to help."
"That's more than I expected."
"It's more than you deserved, before tonight." She finished her glass. "But you've earned something. Grudging respect, at least."
"I'll take it."
Kelly stood, tucking the bourbon away. "Keep building, Cross. Keep proving the old ways wrong. Maybe someday I'll be convinced enough to actually join."
"And if that day never comes?"
"Then at least I'll know there was another way. That would be worth something too."
She disappeared into the night, leaving me with an empty glass and thoughts about how much had changed since I'd first woken up in Daniel Cross's body.
The Pack was real. Even Kelly Burkhardt had been forced to acknowledge it.
Whatever came next, that victory mattered.
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