Outside, Bristol is wet in that charming, miserable way it prides itself on.
The wind off the river tastes like cold metal and bad decisions.
I walk fast—because I'm broke, and dignity is easier when you move quickly.
At the corner, I reach up to adjust my backpack—
And touch nothing.
No strap.
No weight.
No bag.
I stop so suddenly that a cyclist swerves around me with a curse.
I stare at my empty shoulder.
Then I whisper, with feeling:
"Merde."
My bag is upstairs.
With my laptop.
With my ID.
With a burner phone.
With work documents that would make a human panic and make my supervisor—my mother—kill me twice.
I check the time.
More than ten minutes.
Not a quick turnaround.
A real return.
A humiliating return.
I consider running away and becoming a new person.
Then I remember my salary.
So I turn around and head back to Clifton Gate Studios.
Riding the lift back up to the top floor of Clifton Gate Studios is a special kind of humiliation.
The kind that smells like energy drinks, cheap cologne, and my own bad decisions.
The doors slide open on Floor 9.
And before my eyes register the hallway—
my body does.
Blood.
Not a hint. Not a trace.
A thick, wet wave of it, so strong my throat tightens on instinct.
My pupils sharpen. My mouth waters.
Disgusting.
Useful.
Worse: I know this blood.
Miles Quinn. Same cheap arrogance. Same thin, nervous sweetness under the perfume.
The corridor is empty. Too empty.
And then I see it.
Miles's door.
Slightly open.
Like someone left in a hurry.
Like someone wanted it that way.
Every sensible part of me says, Leave. Walk away. Take the fine. Take the lecture from Mom. Just leave.
But my bag is inside.
So my feet move anyway.
I step closer. Quiet. Soft. Careful.
The smell gets worse. My instincts get louder.
I reach the doorway and lean in just enough to see—
A smear on the floor.
Dark. Fresh.
Then—
A hand shoots out.
Not human-fast.
Not human-warm.
It grips my wrist and yanks.
Hard.
I stumble forward, dragged into the studio like a thief caught mid-breath.
The door slams shut behind me.
For half a second, all I hear is my own pulse.
Then I twist, wrenching my wrist free with a snap of speed that would make a human scream.
I stumble back—
and finally see the room.
Miles Quinn is on the floor.
Face down.
Wrong in every way.
Blood isn't "a pool." It's a scene. It's everywhere—soaking the carpet, streaking the leg of his desk, splattered up the wall like punctuation.
His bookshelf has collapsed. Hardcovers scattered like broken teeth.
And his trophy.
Not shining anymore.
Shattered on the floor.
Metal and glass fragments gleam in the lamplight like a cruel joke.
Très dramatique, Miles.
A tall man stands between me and the body.
Broad shoulders. Dark coat. Gloves. Calm posture.
Too calm.
His eyes lift to mine.
Gold, catching the light like a warning.
We don't speak at first.
We don't have to.
We both know what this looks like.
Then we speak at the exact same time.
"Did you kill him?" I say.
"Did you kill him?" he says.
We stare.
His gaze flicks over my face, my hands, my clothes.
Mine flicks over him—posture, stance, breath.
Not a student. Not a civilian.
A professional.
And then I see it: a minimalist patch on his sleeve, almost hidden in the dark.
ORDER DIVISION.
Wolf police.
Of course.
Because my week wasn't already unbearable.
He steps forward, controlled, blocking my line to the sofa where my bag sits like innocent bait.
"Name," he says.
"Student," I say.
"That's not a name."
"That's all you're getting."
His eyes narrow.
He's used to people cooperating.
I'm used to wolves thinking they own the room.
We have history, his kind and mine.
Ugly history.
He speaks again, slower, like he's deciding how much patience to waste on me.
"You were here earlier," he says.
"You track every teenager in Bristol?" I ask.
"I track anomalies," he replies.
"Congratulations," I say, glancing at the corpse. "Found one."
His jaw tightens. He's scanning again—blood pattern, broken shelf, trophy shards—
and then me.
"You came back," he says. "For what?"
"My bag," I say, pointing. "Right there."
He doesn't move.
"I'm conducting an interrogation," he says.
I laugh once. Short. Sharp.
"Of me? In a room where your suspect is already dead?"
His eyes flash, just a little.
"You're not leaving."
I tilt my head, smiling like sugar.
"Watch me."
I turn, take two steps, and grab my bag from the sofa.
He moves instantly—fast enough to blur, but not fast enough to stop me.
His hand clamps down on my arm.
"Don't," he says.
"Don't touch me," I answer, and rip my arm free.
His grip slides. My nails catch his glove. A small tear.
He reacts.
I react.
The air snaps between us like a wire pulled too tight.
He lunges.
I dodge.
My shoulder hits the wall. Hard.
He's in my space before I can blink—wolf-fast, wolf-precise.
He tries to pin my wrist.
I twist, kick low, and catch his shin.
He doesn't even grunt.
Annoying.
He sweeps my leg. I catch myself on the desk, knocking a stack of papers to the floor.
He grabs my wrist again.
This time, I grab his sleeve and pull him forward into the edge of the doorframe.
His head turns at the last second.
Still, I hear the impact.
Solid.
He steps back. Controlled. Furious.
A thin red line appears along his jaw where my nail caught him.
He touches it with his glove, looks at the blood.
Then looks back at me.
Gold eyes. Quiet rage.
"Vampire," he says.
"Wolf," I say, all sweetness.