The Man Who Wasn't There

Rain slicked the streets by the time Charlie left the Laundromat, the pavement glowing with neon reflections — red from the butcher's sign, green from the pharmacy, violet from the tattoo shop whose owner never remembered her name but always waved like they were old friends. She kept her hood up, though the drizzle hardly mattered; water slid off her like she wasn't made of anything absorbent. Perks of the condition.

The walk home should've been calming: the steady rhythm of her steps, the scent of wet asphalt, the hush of the city's quieter hours. But her instincts kept prickling, the way a tongue probes a sore tooth.

Like someone was watching.

She slowed. Looked over her shoulder. Nothing.

Except—

A figure crossed the street half a block back, head bowed, coat too long, stride too steady to be drunk or lost. Human? Maybe. But her senses insisted something was off in a way she couldn't name.

Not werewolf, she told herself immediately. She would've smelled fur, earth, pack. This was something else. Something... cold.

She lengthened her stride.

Her apartment was tucked in an old building that pretended it had been renovated sometime after World War II. She climbed the stairs two at a time and fumbled for her keys — and stilled.

The scent hit her before she even touched the lock.

Male. Human. Clean, like metal and ozone. Whoever he was, he wasn't from her neighborhood. People around here smelled like pizza crusts and exhaustion.

And he was inside.

Charlie's lips peeled back in a silent snarl. No human is supposed to be able to sneak past her senses like that. No one.

She pushed the door open, ready to tear someone's throat out.

Instead, she found a man sitting calmly on her thrift-store sofa, hands folded in his lap like he had been waiting for tea service. Tall, lean, dressed in a dark coat with rain drying on the shoulders. Early thirties, maybe. Sharp features softened only by the faintest tiredness around his eyes.

And those eyes—

They were silver. Not literally, not glowing, but something in the irises caught light like metal.

"Hello, Charlie," he said.

Her wolf bristled. He knows my name.

"Get out," she said, voice flat.

"I will. But I need five minutes first."

"You've already had too many."

He exhaled like he had expected that. "I'm not here to harm you."

"That's good," she said. "Because you wouldn't get the chance."

Her fingers twitched, claws threatening under the skin.

He saw it — and didn't flinch. "I know what you are."

"Oh?" She stepped closer. "And what's that?"

"A werewolf."

She moved before he breathed the second syllable.

Her hand was at his throat, her weight pinning him into the sofa cushions. She didn't shift, but she let the strength bleed through, enough that the frame groaned beneath them.

To her shock, he didn't panic. Didn't struggle. His heartbeat barely quickened.

"Please," he said quietly. "If I wanted to expose you, I'd have done it already."

Charlie growled. "Who are you?"

"Matthew Hale."

"And what do you want, Matthew Hale?"

"A truce."

She blinked. "We're not at war."

"Not you and me," he said. "You and my family."

Confusion cut through the anger — then something else, something heavier and colder sank into her stomach.

Hale.

She knew that name.

Every wolf did.

They were hunters — old ones, organized ones, the truly dangerous kind. The kind with funding and rules and archives older than the country.

Her voice dropped. "You're a hunter."

"Yes."

"And you broke into my apartment."

He grimaced, the closest he had come to shame. "Yes."

"Why?"

He swallowed, and for the first time, she saw fear. Not of her claws. Something worse.

"Because," he said, "my family believes you killed one of ours last night."

"I didn't kill anyone."

"I know," he said immediately. "That's why I'm here."

Something in his tone — earnest, desperate — made her ease her grip. Only slightly.

"Explain," she demanded.

"A man died in the woods near the industrial creek. Throat torn out. Claw marks. My brother found the body." He paused. "He thinks you did it."

Charlie rocked back, releasing him. He sat up slowly, rubbing his throat where she'd held him, though she hadn't broken skin.

"I wasn't anywhere near the woods last night," she said.

"I know," he repeated, those strange silver eyes softening. "I've been tracking you since yesterday evening. You were downtown."

She bristled. "You've been following me?"

"Yes."

Then, quickly: "To keep you safe."

Charlie stared at him like he'd grown antlers.

"Safe," she echoed.

He nodded. "Because whatever killed that man — it's still out there. And it's not you." His voice dipped. "But if my family catches it first, they're going to assume every wolf in this city is involved. Including you."

The weight of that sank in like cold water.

"So you're what?" she said. "Some kind of rogue hunter trying to save the big bad wolf?"

He actually smiled — a small, tired thing. "Something like that."

Charlie crossed her arms. "Why should I trust you?"

"Because," he said, "I'm the only hunter trying to keep you alive."

Silence stretched, thick as fog.

Then he added, quietly:

"And because I think we need to work together if we want to stop whatever did this."

Her laugh was sharp. "A hunter and a werewolf teaming up? Sounds like the setup for a very bad joke."

He smiled again. And for a moment, despite everything, despite the danger and the blood and the history between their kinds, something warm flickered between them — something neither of them was ready to acknowledge.

Finally, Charlie sighed. "Fine. Five minutes. Talk."

Matthew exhaled, relieved but still tense, as though he knew how thin her patience ran.

"Good," he said. "Then I'll start with this: there's another shapeshifter in the city. One I can't identify. One who kills."

Charlie's pulse stilled.

"And," he added, meeting her eyes, "I think it's hunting you."