Sub-basement Level 4 of the SCRS building did not have cell reception. It barely had oxygen.
The freight elevator doors dragged open with a horrific metal-on-metal shriek. Elara stepped out, immediately coughing as a cloud of undisturbed, decades-old dust hit the back of her throat. It tasted like mildew and dead moths.
She limped down the narrow concrete corridor, scanning the rusted metal placards bolted to the chain-link cages.
Julian followed half a step behind her. In the dim, flickering light of the single fluorescent tube, the neon-green dental convention shirt was practically the only visible thing in the hallway. He was walking stiffly, his shoulders pulled back, actively trying not to let his ruined trousers touch the filthy walls.
"Aisle 40... 402," Elara muttered, her flashlight beam cutting through the gloom. She stopped in front of a floor-to-ceiling iron cage. Inside, thousands of identical manila boxes were stacked on sagging metal shelves.
A heavy, industrial-grade Master Lock secured the cage door.
"Alright," Elara sighed, dropping her briefcase onto the concrete floor. She leaned against the cage, rubbing her bad knee. "The physical manifest for Import Clause 4A should be in box 884. I need to go back up to Level 2, submit a Form 1120-B to the head archivist, and wait for the requisition key."
Julian stared at her through the gloom.
"Wait," he repeated. The word sounded foreign in his mouth. "How long?"
"If Mildred is back from her lunch break... maybe forty-eight hours," Elara said, pulling her phone out out of habit, only to remember the 'No Service' icon. "It's a Class-A frozen file, Thorne. We have to follow the chain of custody."
A long, heavy silence stretched in the dark corridor. The only sound was the distant, rhythmic dripping of a leaky condensation pipe.
Julian looked at the heavy iron padlock. Then, he looked at Elara. His jaw was clenched so tight the bones in his face looked sharp enough to cut glass.
"My assets are being liquidated by a psychotic Paladin," Julian said, his voice dropping into that terrifying, dual-layered demonic register. "Your mother is three days away from being thrown onto the street. And you want to wait forty-eight hours for a woman named Mildred to finish her sandwich."
"It's the law, Julian," Elara snapped back, her exhaustion making her voice thin. "If we break the chain of custody, the evidence is inadmissible in the supernatural tax court. We literally have no other choice."
"You have no other choice."
Julian stepped forward. He didn't use any grand, sweeping gestures. He just reached out, wrapped his massive hand around the heavy steel padlock, and squeezed.
CRACK.
The sound of solid, hardened steel snapping echoed down the concrete hallway like a gunshot. The broken padlock hit the floor with a heavy clatter.
Elara flinched, instinctively taking a step back. "Are you insane?!" she hissed, staring at the broken lock in absolute horror. "That is federal property! That's a destruction of government assets charge! Do you know what the fine is for—"
"Quiet."
Julian ripped the heavy iron cage door open. The rusted hinges screamed in protest. He turned around, stepping into her space, entirely boxing her in against the opposite wall.
He looked down at her. The golden predator eyes were burning in the dark, stripping away every ounce of the comedic humiliation he had endured all morning. He wasn't a broke man in a funny shirt right now. He was the Lord of the New York covens.
"Listen to me, little auditor," Julian snarled softly, the vibration of his voice rattling against her collarbones. "I am not your pet. I do not play by your pathetic, slow human rules. You need that file to save your mother. I need it to get my empire back. So stand aside, stop counting your imaginary pennies, and let a real monster do the work."
Elara stared up at him, her heart hammering against her ribs. Not from the Mate Bond. From the sheer, suffocating gravity of his presence.
She swallowed hard. Her throat was bone dry.
She didn't argue. She just bent down, picked up her briefcase, and walked past him into the cage.
"Box 884," Elara said, her voice shaking slightly, though she stubbornly refused to clear her throat. "Third shelf from the top."
Julian effortlessly reached up and pulled a heavy, dust-covered box down, dropping it onto a makeshift metal table.
Elara popped the cardboard lid. A thick, red-tagged folder sat inside. She pulled it out, untying the string closure with clumsy, trembling fingers. She flipped the heavy parchment open.
It was a shipping manifest, dated six months ago. The port of entry was listed as a private dock in Brooklyn, owned by Thorne BioTech.
Elara traced her red pen down the columns of faded ink. "Okay. Import taxes paid: zero. Declared value: thirty-two million... Cargo description..."
She stopped.
The tip of her red pen hovered over the paper.
"What is it?" Julian stepped closer, his arm brushing against her shoulder. The unnatural heat radiating from his skin was a sharp contrast to the freezing basement.
"It's not synthetic blood," Elara whispered. She pushed her glasses up, squinting at the Latin terminology typed into the cargo ledger. "Cargo: Forty lead-lined crates. Origin: The Carpathian Dead Zone. Contents... Sanguis Antiquus."
Julian froze. The air in the cage instantly dropped ten degrees.
"Elder Blood," he translated, his voice completely hollowed out.
"Is that... bad?" Elara asked, looking up at him.
Julian's golden eyes were fixed on the paper, his pupils blown wide in absolute, primal horror.
"It's not just bad, Elara," Julian rasped, his claws subconsciously extending and gouging deep grooves into the metal table. "Elder Blood is the raw, unrefined venom of the first vampires. It's highly addictive, and it is lethally toxic to humans. If a lesser vampire or a werewolf drinks it..."
He looked at her, the reality of the conspiracy finally clicking into place.
"It causes a forced mutation," Julian finished grimly. "It strips away their sanity and turns them into mindless, hyper-aggressive killing machines. Feral super-soldiers."
Elara stared at the manifest. The math in her head rearranged itself, terrifyingly fast.
"Thirty-two million dollars' worth of it," she whispered, the clipboard suddenly feeling incredibly heavy in her hands. "Julian... somebody isn't just washing money through your company. Somebody is building an army."