Chapter 4

The crosswalk sign flashes red as I approach, an unwavering command to stop, to wait, to hold. I heed it, just this once. There is no harm in pausing when I know what lies ahead.

The penthouse is a world apart from the one I now move through, but I carry pieces of it with me, fragments of luxury and silence that adorn me as surely as the jewels at my ears and throat. They are reminders of the things I cannot, or will not, let go. I wear them with the same studied care as the rest of my trappings, knowing that they bind me as much as they adorn me.

In the courtyard, a gardener pauses to watch my progress, his fingers still buried in the dark, loamy soil. I meet his gaze with unflinching directness, absorbing the flash of surprise as he realizes who I am. The recognition is immediate, unmistakable, and I continue on with a faint smile curving my lips.

I pass through the front doors of my building, entering with the fluid, self-assured grace of someone who has never known rejection. The woman at the desk greets me with wide eyes and a timid "Good morning, Ms. Wolfe," as if the mere act of addressing me were an act of bravery.

I incline my head in response, a regal nod that acknowledges both her presence and her audacity. The lift awaits me, its doors held open by a young man whose ID badge dangles precariously from the edge of his collar.

He presses the button for my floor without being asked, then glances sideways with a poorly concealed mixture of curiosity and awe. "I didn't know you were coming in today," he says, an implicit question hidden in the statement.

I consider ignoring him, then decide that I am feeling magnanimous. "I like to keep you guessing," I reply, letting a hint of warmth color the words. It is enough to startle him into a grin, one that fades into embarrassed silence as the doors slide shut between us.

I am alone now, encased in glass and steel, suspended between what I was and what I will be. The final seconds before my arrival stretch and elongate, filled with the hum of machinery and the sound of my own breath.

I step out as the doors part, my reflection splitting and fracturing with my movement. There are many Mara Wolfes. I am all of them.

I am the wolf, even in tailored business attire. It waits inside me, prowling, hungry, watching through my eyes and feeling through my skin. The city pulses beneath me, unaware of the predator above.

The rooftop stretches out like a deserted landscape, its expanse barren except for the distant glint of the antenna, a needle pointing to the swelling moon. My lungs burn with exertion and anticipation, my pulse hammering with the rhythm of something I cannot fully contain. The freedom is intoxicating, the threat of it sharper than the chilled night air.

I stand on the ledge, the entire city sprawling out in a sea of distant, flickering lights. My instincts sharpen, and everything is more: the wet tang of rain-soaked concrete, the acrid scent of a distant cigarette, the rumble of traffic far below. Each detail is amplified, absorbed into the marrow of my bones and the beat of my blood.

I will not break. I will not lose myself.

But the wolf is closer than it has ever been, a persistent shadow beneath the thin veneer of my control. I feel it stretch inside me, a tension coiling tighter with each breath. My own breath. The wolf's breath. The two are indistinguishable, two threads of the same primal urge that threatens to unravel all that I have built.

The pulse of the city echoes in my head, a syncopated lullaby that urges me to surrender. I know its song by heart, have hummed along to its melody since the first time I stood on a rooftop like this, defiant and desperate and so impossibly young.

It will not have me.

The wolf disagrees.

I begin to pace, the staccato click of my heels echoing against the metal and stone. Each step a defiance, a reminder that I am still in control. Each step a concession, a nod to the duality that threatens to fracture my careful composure. I cannot keep up with myself, moving faster and faster until the thin layer of humanity sloughs off in rivulets of sweat, soaking through the silk of my blouse and the wool of my suit jacket.

I reach for the wall to steady myself, the concrete scraping the skin of my palms. The sensation jolts through me, sharp and electrifying, a crackling reminder that I am still here, still in this form.

The horizon stretches out before me, an open mouth waiting to devour. It dares me to jump, to run, to let the night and the wildness take me. I am the only one who stands in the way, the only thing holding myself back from the transformation that looms inevitable as the changing of the tides.

I will not lose. I will not give in.

And yet, and yet.