LOGINThe moon, not yet full, hung like a silver hook in the sky, its cold light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Sterling family study, casting long, distorted shadows. An unsettling silence had descended upon the entire city, the kind of heavy quiet that precedes a storm. It was a tangible pressure, a weight on the chest that made every breath feel deliberate.
Jack stood before the window, his reflection a faint outline against the sprawling city lights. The metropolis glittered below, a galaxy of circuits and ambition, yet tonight, it felt like a hunting ground. He could almost feel the predatory gaze of his rival, Kyle, fixed on this very mansion. The psychological warfare had already begun.
It started subtly. An hour ago, the main power grid to the Sterling estate flickered and died. The emergency generators kicked in with a low hum, plunging the opulent mansion into a sterile, half-lit state for a disorienting three seconds. It was too precise to b
The sensation was unlike anything Jack had ever experienced. It wasn't a sound, nor was it a vision. It was a map, etched not onto paper, but directly onto the canvas of his consciousness. A sprawling, three-dimensional tapestry of the entire city, woven from threads of instinct and dominance. With a mere thought, he could feel them—the scattered, hidden heartbeats of his kind. Each werewolf in the metropolis was a distinct point of light on this mental chart. Some flickered with a cold, blue terror, like mice hiding from a hawk. Others pulsed with a neutral, steady white, the glow of lone wolves minding their own affairs. And then there were the others—clusters of angry, defiant red, throbbing like infected wounds. These were the established packs, the local tyrants who had yet to bend the knee.This was the first true gift of his ascendant Alpha bloodline: the [Wolf Pack's Call]. It wasn't just a summons; it was a census, a divine right to know every corner of h
The journey back from the Blackrock Mine was silent. The armored convoy cut through the pre-dawn gloom, its occupants wrapped in a heavy quiet that had nothing to do with fatigue. They had won. They had faced down a biological nightmare, defused an impossible trap, and crippled their unseen enemy with a financial blow that would take months, if not years, to recover from. They had returned with one of their own injured but alive, a new and terrified ally in tow, and a fortune that could fund a small war. It should have been a moment of triumph.But the image of the photograph was burned onto the inside of Jack’s eyelids. It played over and over in his mind, a silent, smiling accusation.Back at the penthouse, which served as their unofficial headquarters, the atmosphere was thick with unspoken questions. Marcus quietly dismissed his men, ordering them to a secure medical facility to tend to the wounded soldier and get some much-needed rest. Elara was already sequeste
The man’s name was Leo. He was shaking so violently that Marcus had to steady him as he was brought into the brightly lit laboratory. The transition from the dark, uncertain night into the cold, clinical heart of his former prison was a shock to his system. His eyes, wide with fear, darted from the armed soldiers to the row of humming pods, and finally, to Jack. In Jack, he saw the source of the call, and he visibly flinched, lowering his gaze in a display of pure, instinctual submission."You said you can open it," Jack said, his voice leaving no room for games. He didn't have time for them. The clock showed less than 18 hours."Yes, Alpha," Leo stammered, the honorific slipping out unbidden. "There's a maintenance override. A backdoor. It was designed for Dr. Thorne to use in case the primary biometric system failed during an emergency lockdown. It requires a physical palm print, but it's keyed to a generic technician's profile, not his specific one. But you al
Desperation began to curdle the air in the control room. The dead man's lock was a perfect trap, an elegant, checkmate move from an enemy they had yet to even meet. Elara worked furiously, running simulations, searching for a loophole, a digital ghost in the machine, but found nothing. The system was flawless, a self-contained monolith of security."We're out of options," Marcus said, his jaw tight. He began issuing quiet orders to his men, preparing them for his last-ditch plan. "We'll use shaped charges. Try to sever the power conduit leading from the main core to the incubation chamber. The odds of a catastrophic overload are… high. But it's better than letting those things wake up."It was a suicide mission, and everyone knew it. A plan born of having no other plan."No," Jack said. The word was quiet, yet it cut through the tense preparations like a razor. Every eye turned to him. He was standing perfectly still, his gaze fixed not on the terminal, but on t
The victory over F-01 was hollow, leaving a bitter, metallic taste in the air that had nothing to do with spent gunpowder. It was the taste of a deeper, more complex fear. The timer on the central console was a relentless, blinking red eye, now showing just over 39 hours remaining. Each second that ticked by felt like a drop of water in a vessel that was about to overflow."We can't just blow them up," Marcus stated, his voice grim as he paced before the row of ominous, frost-covered pods. He had already run a dozen demolition scenarios through his head, and each ended in catastrophe. "The energy readings Elara is getting suggest these things are linked to a central power core. A brute-force breach could trigger a chain reaction. We could be looking at an explosion that would level this entire mountain."Elara, her face illuminated by the holographic interface projected from her wrist, nodded in agreement. Her usual confident energy was replaced by a focused intensity.
The air in the mine shaft, already thick with the smell of damp earth and ozone from Elara’s equipment, suddenly grew heavy, oppressive. It was a pressure change that had nothing to do with geology and everything to do with instinct. The sound that ripped through the oppressive silence was a grotesque violation of nature—a high-pitched, piercing shriek that mimicked the distress of a human infant, yet was distorted, layered with a wet, gurgling undertone that spoke of a throat not designed for such noises. It was a sound engineered to prey on the deepest, most primal fears.Every member of Marcus’s elite Ghost squad froze, their military discipline warring with the lizard-brain instinct to either flee or collapse. One of them, a mountain of a man named Cortez who boasted scars from a dozen forgotten conflicts and had a reputation for being unflappable, turned a sickly shade of green. His knuckles, gripping the forend of his assault rifle, were bone-white. He







