All Chapters of The Full Moon Murders : Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

The old church was silent, lit only by the moon bleeding through cracked stained-glass windows. The wooden pews had long since rotted, but tonight, they were filled with wolves in human skinmen and women, leather-jacketed, sharp-eyed, brimming with tension.Damian walked down the aisle like a shadow, his coat still damp from the rain outside. His jaw was clenched. His silence commanded the room.Lucian, his younger brother, stepped out from the shadows near the pulpit.“You went to the mayor,” Lucian said without preamble.Damian didn’t flinch. “I had to.”“The pack didn’t vote on that.”“I don’t need your votes. I need this city alive.”Murmurs rippled through the wolves.“You think they’ll spare us?” said Kara, one of the enforcers. “You think humans won’t burn us down the moment they feel a chill in the wind?”Damian’s voice dropped low. “They’re already burning. That’s the point. I bought us time.”Lucian scoffed. “Time for what? To hide? To bow? That’s not what you used to stand

The room was windowless, a single bulb casting a pale cone of light over the metal table. The air smelled faintly of old coffee and cold steel. Mason sat opposite the man in the chair, mid-forties, lean build, dressed in the kind of second-hand jacket that had seen too many winters. His wrists were cuffed to the table, and there was a small bead of sweat sliding down his temple, despite the chill in the room.Mason didn’t rush. He leaned back in his chair, letting the silence settle like dust. “You’ve been awfully quiet, Caleb,” he said finally, his tone even but edged. “I can work quietly. But you know who can’t?”Caleb’s eyes flicked up briefly. “Who?”“The people upstairs,” Mason replied, nodding toward the ceiling as if the whole weight of the department and maybe something far above it sat there. “They hear you’re stonewalling, they’ll pull you out of here and you’ll wish you’d had the chance to talk to me instead.”Caleb shifted in his seat, the cuffs clinking against the metal.

The interview room was small enough that every breath felt shared, the stale air hanging between them like an unspoken threat. The single overhead light cast a cone onto the metal table, leaving the corners in shadow. Mason sat across from Jonas Hale, elbows on the table, his jacket folded neatly over the back of his chair.Hale had the hollow-eyed look of a man who hadn’t slept in days. Sweat had dried to a salt crust on his brow, and his fingers twitched against the chain linking his cuffs to the table bolt. His jaw clenched every time Mason’s gaze locked onto him.“Jonas,” Mason said, voice low but steady, “you know why you’re here.”“I already told you—”“You told me nothing.” Mason leaned forward, tapping a finger against the file. The sound was quiet but deliberate. “This is a courtesy. Out there?” He jerked his chin toward the door. “They want a closed casket for you. I’m giving you a chair, a table, and a shot at walking out breathing.”Hale tried for a laugh, but it came out

Smoke curled through the rafters, stinging Mason’s eyes. He dropped another magazine into the pistol and pushed off the crate, firing as he moved. The floor was slick with dust and blood, shadows of fallen men collapsing into silence around him.Then it shifted. The gunfire thinned, replaced by a ragged silence broken only by the ticking of hot brass cooling on the floor. Mason’s chest heaved as he scanned the haze.A slow clap echoed.Owen stepped out from the smoke, pistol low, his coat torn but his grin unshaken. “Not bad,” he said. “For a man who doesn’t even know which side he’s on.”Mason raised his weapon. “Drop it.”Owen tilted his head, amused. “You think I care about guns? I’ve been in crosshairs since the day I could walk.” His gaze flicked down to the ledger case at Mason’s feet. “That’s what matters. That’s the city. The Circle. Sloan. Your dead friends. Every thread, in one neat little box.”Mason’s jaw tightened. His finger hovered on the trigger, but something in Owen’

The room they put Evelyn in had no corners. At least, that’s how it felt. The walls curved inward, seamless, sterile, too white for her eyes to rest anywhere. No table. No chair. Just her and the weight of silence.A voice came from nowhere, smooth and disembodied.“E-113.”Her throat tightened. “That’s not my name.”“You cling to Evelyn Shaw because it’s convenient,” the voice replied, cold as glass. “But Evelyn Shaw was manufactured. E-113 was designed.”A hiss ventilation. The faint smell of antiseptic. Evelyn paced like a caged animal, fighting the rise of panic. “Then why bring me here? Why not kill me like the rest?”“You’re not like the rest.”Across the city, Mason’s car cut through rain-slick streets, tires shrieking on sharp turns. Emily’s laptop beeped another cracked firewall, another trail of buried files.“Mason, listen.” Her voice was steady, but her hands trembled as she typed. “Every subject in this program had a final directive. They were all terminated before they r