Chapter Two: The Trap

They clashed.

Again. And again.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t pause. This was a hunt—not for survival, but for justice long denied.

Her blows were calculated, brutal. She ducked under his swipes, slammed her shoulder into his side, raked claws down his flank. Blood matted his fur. Ethan fought back—fangs snapping, claws slashing the air—but she danced around him like she'd trained for this moment a thousand times.

He barreled into her with full force, pinning her against the alley wall. For a second, he felt her ribs crack beneath his bulk. Her breath hitched—a sharp, wounded gasp. A second later, he was flying backward, thrown like a ragdoll. He hit a dumpster. Hard. Metal screamed, denting inward with the impact. A trash lid clattered to the ground. He staggered, dazed, stars bursting behind his eyes.

She was on him before he could rise. Her teeth snapped at his throat. He rolled away, barely avoiding her bite.

Ethan snarled, circling. His gold eyes locked onto her amber ones. No words. No names.

She leapt.

They hit the ground, a tangle of limbs and fury. She clawed into his shoulder. He headbutted her, dazing her, then slammed his paw into her snout. She staggered—but recovered with terrifying speed.

He lunged again, but she spun beneath him, grabbed his hind leg, and yanked. He hit the pavement with a growl.

He scrambled upright, only for her to slash across his face. Blood clouded his vision.

Instinct roared.

He charged her, knocking them both into the side wall. Bricks cracked. They rolled—she bit into his forearm; he howled and retaliated, his claws tearing through her side.

Still, she didn’t stop.

It was like she was made for this moment.

And then, with a feral roar, she surged upright, tackled him into the wall again, and brought a silver dagger hilt-deep into his thigh.

Agony. The world flared white.

He collapsed, panting, limbs heavy. The silver pulsed in his blood. He tried to move—couldn’t. The venom of it was spreading fast.

She didn’t wait. As his body writhed in agony, as his limbs spasmed and his vision darkened, she stepped forward and swung again—brutal, efficient. Her clawed hand slammed into the side of his skull. The world exploded in light and static.

Then, nothing.

When he came to, the world was still again—but different.

Concrete walls. Rusted beams. The stink of oil and mildew. A warehouse. Abandoned, forgotten. The hum of a flickering fluorescent light buzzed somewhere above. His arms were chained, heavy manacles bolted into the highest beams—ensuring it was impossible to break free from the chains. Silver-lined. Not enough to kill him—but enough to keep the beast asleep.

She stood over him, heaving. Blood streaked her chest. One eye swollen. Her breathing ragged, but her stance solid.

Only now—only after the war had been won—did she speak.

“You don’t remember me,” she growled, voice like gravel soaked in fire. “But I remember you.”

The words froze him. Recognition flickered just out of reach.

She leaned closer.

“Randall Mays. Eight years ago. You defended him. Said there wasn’t enough evidence.”

The name was a punch to the gut.

A trial. A contractor. A dead man crushed on a site. ‘Inconclusive,’ the verdict had said.

“My father,” she snarled, her fangs bared inches from his throat, “died screaming under collapsed steel while Mays ran free and untouched. And you—” her voice cracked, but her fury didn’t—“you made the jury doubt their own eyes. Twisted the truth into a weapon.”

Her claws tightened against his chest.

“The audacity…” she hissed, trembling with rage. “To take what was clear as daylight and smear it in just enough shadow to blind them. You didn’t just defend a killer. You made a dead man take the blame for his own death.”

She looked like she might tear his throat out right then and there. Every inch of her radiated hate—righteous, unchecked, wild. Her muscles were coiled, jaw trembling, breath ragged.

“I should kill you,” she whispered. “Right now. And I’d be doing the world a favor.””

He wanted to speak, but she was already moving.

A sharp jab in his neck. Cold flooded his veins.

The world tipped sideways.

And went black.

Time became a void. There were no dreams. No sounds. Only the lingering chill of her words echoing in his subconscious, like a blade dragged through ice.

He floated in that darkness for what felt like days. Or hours. Or minutes. It was impossible to tell. All he could feel was the pressure of pain waiting for him at the edge.

When sensation returned, it did so in pieces.

First, the dull throb behind his eyes. Then the weight of his limbs—immense, as if gravity had been rewritten solely to crush him. The air was thick, damp. It tasted of rust and old metal.

A slow creak above him. The sound of a chain shifting under tension. Then another. And another.

Ethan groaned.

He opened his eyes, blinking against the low industrial light that swung overhead. It cast slow, dizzying shadows across a cavernous space—concrete walls pockmarked with mold and decay. Rows of rusted lockers lined one edge. Broken crates were stacked in a corner like forgotten graves. And somewhere, water dripped rhythmically from a cracked pipe.

He tried to move. Couldn’t.

His arms were stretched above him, chained high into iron beams, his feet barely touching the ground. The cuffs were thick. Reinforced. Etched with something that smelled faintly of silver and burnt ozone.

It wasn’t just imprisonment.

It was containment.

A faint breath behind him. Movement.

He twisted his head—and there she was.

Anna.

Sitting on a crate in the shadows, legs crossed, elbows on her knees. Her posture loose, but her eyes—those eyes—were anything but relaxed. They blazed with quiet calculation.

He remembered everything. 

The fight. The blade. 

Her words. Her hate.