Night had a way of stretching itself thinner in Ridgecliff — of becoming a film you could press your palm against and feel the town's heartbeat on the other side. Brendon liked that hour before dawn, when the world still smelled of rain and nothing yet had the nerve to be honest. He liked it because lies were less obvious then. People's faces hadn't hardened into readiness. Fear hadn't yet learned to shout.
At 03:12 the record showed him moving under the streetlight. He'd been awake most of the night, eyes flicking to Elena's portrait on the desk, to Sofie's logs and the list of shell companies related to potential money laundering. The case had grown teeth every way he looked at it. He'd sat with the work until the numbers blurred. Then he'd gone out for air and found himself steering toward a place that had no right to be on his route.
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South-East Block, Abandoned Warehouse, 3:42 a.m.
Drago's lair smelled of iron, diesel, and old smoke. The warehouse sat at the edge of town where industry folded into ruins: corrugated roofs, broken glass half-mirroring the sky, graffiti like the flayed script of someone who had rehearsed menace into art. Drago had a way of choosing territories that made sense — the places where law softened into memory and men with muscle and ledger skills could operate like a nervous system beneath the city.
Brendon had come here once before. Once had felt like a lifetime. The first time had been on the Redfur case: a drug sweep that had ended with handcuffs; Drago, a dragonlike anthro with scales that caught light like coal, led to a courtroom. It had ended ugly: a raid, a counterattack, a night when Ridgecliff's blue lights had looked like the dying of distant stars. Station windows had been cracked, and men had died in the confusion. Brendon had watched Drago rear like a god and vanish, the way big predators go when they can smell the scent of institutional blood.
Now the air in the warehouse hummed with machines and low voices. A dozen men — dark silhouettes, sleeves rolled, eyes like chips of flint — watched him approach. They let him in because it was easier to keep an eye on a wolf in the pit than let a wolf walk unattended in the town. They led him to a room that felt like a private museum of modest rackets: a workbench with small piles of cash wrapped in elastic bands, a wall of calendar grids dotted with names, and a heavy chair where Drago lounged, the kind of posture that looked like an animal using gravity as a weapon.
Drago's horns curled like brass fittings, and his snout was glossy with polish. He wore a cheap suit that had been cared for in the way people care for things they can't afford to lose: meticulously. He smiled when Brendon entered, a slow, amused curl that did not reach his eyes.
"Well, well," Drago said, voice like a baritone piano. "If it isn't the town's favorite mascot. The wolf returns. I suppose you missed the bad coffee."
Brendon stayed where he was. His jaw was steady. He didn't bother with apologies. He knew the lay of debts here: favors exchanged under loose terms, information bought in cash and given away when the price was right. Coming here meant stooping to get answers that paper and subpoenas might not reveal for weeks — if at all.
"You know what I want," Brendon said.
"Such straight manners," Drago replied. "Where's the romance? Where's the dramatic flourish? A little book of poetry at least. Because you come in here at three... oh! Four a.m., I presume you didn't walk all this way for my charming décor."
"A human has died," Brendon said. "A woman died and someone filmed it. The world thinks we're a cult now. You know how things move through your networks — I need a map. Names, movement, who's buying what. Help me find a needle in a haystack."
Drago laughed softly. "You and your metaphors, Wolf. Always trying to make your life feel like a puzzle. Fine. I'll talk. But of course, it will cost you."
"What do you want? money?" Brendon asked.
Drago's smile became teeth. "No. I want you to remember what I do for a living: I deal in information. Information is not currency to me. It's a diet. You give me a legal problem and I'll chew on it until something useful falls out. But I don't just hand it to someone with badge, am I? Give me a good reason to do that."
"You want something else huh?" Brendon's patience didn't carry heat anymore; it carried edges. He was tired of this slow tilt of negotiations when people were already dead.
Drago leaned forward. The lair's single bulb bounced along his scales, giving him the look of a statue that might yet move. "You already gave me something. Prestige. When you threw me in that jail, you made me famous in a small way, Wolf. That has value. But now you come hat in hand for information, and I must protect my own."
"You were busted for trafficking," Brendon said. "We took you down. And the station nearly got burned for it."
"That was a long time," Drago said. "You served your duty. I burned a book. We both played our parts. So it's even. We didn't murder one another for mere fun after all, didn't we? That's a kind of progress." He shrugged. "So talk. What's the ligne? The rumor?"
Brendon was blunt, because it saved breath. "Kelvin Richardson. Eris Noir. Shell accounts funneling through fan platforms. 'Trial_one' video — that streamed days ago. Do you know the man? Any runners associated with this projects?"
Drago's eye twitched — an almost indulgent expression. "Kelvin? Ah. The man with the silicon smile. He came to me once, disguised as a man who loved film. Everyone thinks the rich people have taste. But they only just have budgets, that's all. Kelvin's a buyer of scenes. He hires men to make content that burns fast and pays longer. He splashed cash at Eris Noir years back. Little investment, big return. He's got a taste for spectacle. He doesn't get his hands dirty. He has others to sweat for him."
Brendon leaned on that. "Others like Mark."
Drago's lips curved. "Mmm. Mark. Cute name. Mark is — depending on the day — a courier, an understudy, a fixer. Men like Kelvin use names like Mark the way someone uses a glove. Slip it on, take a hit, toss it away. The Mark who bemoaned his 'Whitney' online — he's a particular breed. Couriers who double as content-stage managers. They're nimble, anonymous, dirty enough to touch things no one wants on the record. If the Mark you had is one of mine, he's a runner who takes product, drops it, and disappears before dawn. He is paid in quiet, in small benefits, in promises that don't include writ."
Brendon heard the cadence and caught the smell of truth: someone running errands for a bigger machine. "Do you know where he goes? Where he sleeps?"
Drago shrugged. "I know the routes. Does that help? People like him sleep in hostels, in the backs of vans, sometimes in the corners of modeling agencies. He shifts. He's brown-haired, yes? Young. He doesn't keep a name because it's inefficient to do so. But if Kelvin's involved, there are ledgers. Shell companies get payments, then micro-payments go out to runners and freelancers. I don't have his ledger, Wolf. I have the scent he leaves behind."
Sofie's tests had told them the knife had traces — brown hair — and Scott was running DNA tests. Brendon's mind connected dots in the dark and found that shape too. "You say Kelvin hired Mark. Can you tie Kelvin to the shell transfers that Sofie flagged?"
Drago took a slow breath. "I know bookkeeping, too — in my small way. I know who accepts the cash and who keeps the ledger. Kelvin keeps his books with people who are artful about laundering money through the night. He uses fake invoices, sponsorships, platform payouts. I don't touch his paperwork directly. I am not fond of laundering other people's laundry. But I have ears that hear where money goes to buy silence. Right now they're pushing funds into renovation companies, into small construction projects up by Ledeau, odd places that serve as cover. You might want to look there."
Brendon felt the hairs along his neck catch. Ledeau had been a name whispered in the station's own dark history with Perseus (a local criminal gang). It was a stretch and a connection, and he didn't make leaps without rope. "Renovations at Ledeau?"
Drago nodded. "Not the estate itself — petty contracts, subcontractors, transfers moved into companies that only exist on paper. If you follow those companies, you'll find out who is buying influence. You want specifics? I can give you a name of a contractor. But the price will be—"
"You don't want money from me," Brendon said. He knew the cost Drago would demand: small favors, legal cover, the kind of tacit immunity that came from having a wolf's protection in the teeth of politics. "You want me to blink when the feds poke. Or keep the station from pushing too hard on one of your lanes."
Drago's laugh was a soft flame. "You are a generous negotiator, Wolf. You can give me your word. You let the mayor's calls go cold if they mention certain projects, and in return I tell you which contractor is moving the payments. Call it a civic arrangement. Call it a pause on the station's righteous fury. You want to know the truth — choose your friend wisely."