The air around Moonstone Park shimmered with afternoon heat, distorting the outlines of towering trees and the silver shimmer of the monumental Moonstone Fountain. The crowd sprawled across the lawn like a restless tide, students in uniform, reporters with badges, street vendors hawking sweet buns and spicy meat skewers. On a raised marble platform, a sleek mic adjusted with a mechanical hiss as Alexander Farren stepped forward, smile crisp, suit spotless, mask airtight.
Behind him, the cascading fountain caught the light, symbolic of the supernatural undercurrents that ran beneath Moonstone's quiet façade.
"Citizens," Farren began, his voice amplified by hidden speakers mounted in the trees. "We stand at the dawn of a new age."
He gestured broadly, practiced and theatrical, to the sea of faces.
"A world where humans and the supernatural no longer merely coexist... but build together."
A few scattered claps. Some cheers. Some silence.
Farren's voice softened just enough to feel intimate. "But let's not pretend it'll be easy. We can't keep treating wolves like sheep. We need laws that reflect reality, not sentiment. Different beings... different needs. Different rules."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Eyebrows rose. Fingers hovered over record buttons.
"That's why," he continued, "we're proposing changes to the national charter. The first of their kind. A legal system that recognizes our supernatural citizens as equal, yet distinct."
He paused, letting the weight settle.
"And laws mean governance. They require guardians, enforcers, protectors. That's why Farren Enterprise exists. To ensure that progress doesn't come at the cost of security."
Now came the real wave, applause, applause, a few skeptical stares. A journalist from Moonstone Gazette raised a hand.
"Mr. Farren, would you say this is just a sugarcoated way of saying you want to muzzle werewolves?"
Chuckles from the crowd. Tension.
Farren's smile didn't crack. "I'd say it's a way of ensuring they aren't hunted, or hunted by mistake. A legal muzzle is still better than a silver bullet, wouldn't you agree?"
Laughter, polite but cautious.
Another reporter chimed in: "You're trailing in the polls. The Sutton campaign has overtaken you. How do you respond?"
Farren inhaled lightly, not annoyance, just calculation.
"I respond by reminding the public I'm not a politician. I'm a businessman. I build systems. I don't make promises; I make results. Polls fluctuate. Foundations remain."
It was smooth. Sharp. Clinical.
By the end of the speech, he'd won more nods than glares. The public was still divided, but not in revolt. For now, that was victory enough.
Backstage, as the crowd dispersed, Farren made a beeline for where his armored sedan should've been idling. It wasn't there. Just the empty curb and a nervous assistant fidgeting by a tree.
Farren's eyes narrowed. "Where the hell is my car?"
The assistant flinched. "S-Sir… we were given instructions to reroute it."
Farren straightened. "By who?"
The young man swallowed, then turned his head toward a dark limousine idling across the street, black glass, chrome trim, unmistakable. The kind of vehicle that only one person dared send.
Farren didn't speak. His throat clenched. He already knew.
He approached the limo with the solemn gait of a man walking to his own trial. The rear door opened before he could touch it. He stepped in.
Inside, cold leather met cold silence. A man in a butler's uniform offered him a drink on a silver tray, bourbon, no ice. Farren took it without speaking.
Then his eyes shifted across the cabin.
Sitting in shadow, facing him, was a woman in a black mermaid gown, one leg elegantly crossed over the other. A feathered toupee dipped low, veiling half her pale face. But the glint of her snow-white hair, the ice in her posture, he knew. He'd always know.
"Elaine," he muttered, voice drained.
She swirled the wine in her crystal glass like she was scrying fate itself. "Alexander. I came to watch your little performance."
He scoffed, lifting the bourbon to his lips to keep his hands from trembling. "I suppose you're here to critique my delivery."
"No," she said simply. "I'm here to remind you that you're still behind in the polls."
Farren's jaw clenched. "I'm not a politician. You know that."
Elaine smiled, slow, serpentine. "And yet… here you are."
"I'm trying," he snapped. "But people don't trust a businessman with their freedoms."
"Which is exactly why you're useful," she said. "You know how to manage risk. You follow orders. That's all you were ever needed for."
Farren looked away, his fingers white around the glass. "I never wanted this."
"You lost the luxury of 'want' when you crossed me years ago," Elaine said coolly. "Your wife paid the price. I wonder how long it'll be until your son realizes he will too."
Farren's breath caught in his chest.
"You leave him out of this."
Elaine took a slow sip, unbothered. "I'll leave him useful. How long do you think he'll keep playing dumb?"
The silence after that was suffocating.
She set her glass down. "This campaign is a smokescreen, Alex. The real plan is already unfolding. You just need to follow your lines, stay out of the way, and sign when I tell you."
Farren's mask crumbled just enough to show something raw underneath, fear, rage, guilt. "What do you want from me?"
Elaine looked up. For the first time, the edge of her eyes peeked from beneath the veil, icy and ancient.
"Loyalty," she said. "The kind that doesn't forget pain."
Then, with a snap of her fingers, the car door opened. Farren stepped out without a word, his heart hammering.
Only then did he realize where they were.
Farren Towers.
He hadn't even noticed the drive.
The car purred away behind him, disappearing into the blur of Moonstone's downtown.
Farren stood there for a moment, one hand digging a handkerchief from his pocket, blotting the sweat from his temple. The marble floors of his own lobby reflected his image back to him, immaculate on the outside, hollow on the inside.
And somewhere far above, in one of those floors he once called his empire, he knew he was no longer a king, only a puppet in a castle with someone else's flag flying.
***
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over Moonstone, but inside the cramped precinct office of Detective Joe Hawkings, the light was dim, flickering weakly from an overhead bulb. Joe paced like a caged predator, the floor creaking beneath his restless steps. His eyes darted constantly between the plain wooden desk and the folded letter lying beneath the magnifying glass, a letter that carried secrets darker than the shadows pooling in the corners of the room.
He finally stopped and leaned heavily on the table, fingers trembling slightly as he reached out and unfolded the crisp paper. The letter's contents, written in a tight, hurried script, seemed to pulse with an urgency that unsettled him:
"To the one who still believes in justice.
I know you see the rot underneath this town's surface. The wolves, the whispers, the blood—you know it's connected.
You saw that little girl at the crime scene. You know what her face reminded you of. So don't ignore the weight in your chest. It's not grief; it's instinct.
You think this was random? No. This wasn't just a killing. It was a message, and it wasn't sent by who you think.
The ones responsible aren't hiding. They walk freely in Moonstone, protected by their name and their history. The Gryphon family has secrets buried deeper than their graves. Their house is older than most. So is their hatred.
I don't expect you to believe me. I only expect you to do what you've always done. Dig.
There is a warehouse on the edge of the industrial district. No cameras, no patrols. Abandoned, supposedly. But you'll find traces there. Claw marks, burned claws, a silver cartridge lodged in brick.
It's the first of many things the Gryphons tried to erase.
Time is running out, detective, before the truth vanishes with them.
A friend who sees."
Joe's breath hitched. His fingers traced the jagged edges of the paper, as if trying to pull more meaning from the words than ink could contain. He thought back to the grim scene, the shattered bungalow on the outskirts of town, the little girl's lifeless form beneath the twisted branches of a dead tree, her hair unmistakably like his own daughter's. The memory was a dagger twisting deep inside his chest.
The letter was more than a lead; it was a whisper from the abyss, beckoning him closer to a truth he both craved and feared.
Yet, questions thundered in his mind. Who was this 'friend who sees'? How had the letter found its way to his desk, placed there silently while the precinct buzzed with routine cases? And most chilling of all, was it genuine, or a trap set by unseen forces pulling strings from the shadows?
Joe's eyes flickered to the magnifying glass beside the letter. He used it now, examining the handwriting closely. No fingerprints. No postmark. Nothing that could tie the letter to a sender, only the weight of the message itself.
The Gryphons.
He'd heard the name whispered among officers, hushed tones spoken with a mixture of respect and fear. The Gryphons were one of Moonstone's ancient werewolf families, wealthy, shrewd, and unlike the others, they kept their claws buried beneath layers of luxury and business dealings. Marijuana plantations sprawling across distant lands, tobacco fields fat with smoke and money—their empire was vast, but mostly kept out of politics and power plays. Or so it seemed.
Joe's gut told him there was more. There always was.
He ran a hand through his graying hair, his eyes narrowing. The letter claimed the Gryphons were hiding something, something dangerous. Claw marks and silver cartridges etched into bricks were no coincidence. They were marks of a battle fought in the shadows, a warning left behind for those brave enough to follow the trail.
He imagined the warehouse, he abandoned building sitting silent in the industrial district, cameras removed, guards absent. Was it really abandoned? Or was it a fortress guarding secrets that would shake Moonstone's fragile peace to its core?
Joe's thoughts flickered to the sheriff, the man who held the power to approve or deny the investigation that could bring down the city's delicate balance. The sheriff was a wary man, deeply enmeshed in the complicated web of werewolf politics, and Joe knew he would face resistance. Powerful families guarded their secrets jealously, and crossing them was a gamble Joe was not sure he could win.
But justice had never been about safety.
The detective gathered the letter and magnifying glass, sliding them carefully into an envelope. His heart pounded in his chest, a mixture of anticipation and dread. Tonight, he would bring the letter to the sheriff. He would ask for permission to follow this lead, to dig deeper into the Gryphons' world.
And he would pray he was ready for what came next.
The office door creaked open, and Joe's partner, Detective Harper, stepped inside, his face shadowed with concern.
"Joe, you alright? You've been pacing all day." Harper's voice was low, wary.
Joe nodded, forcing a tired smile. "I've got something. A letter. It points to the Gryphons. I'm taking it to the sheriff tonight."
Harper's eyes darkened. "You know what you're dealing with. Those families don't play by our rules."
Joe's jaw tightened. "I don't care. This is the break we need. The truth's been buried too long."
Harper hesitated, then clapped a hand on Joe's shoulder. "Be careful. We both know how dangerous that path can be."
Joe gave a small nod, the weight of the warning sinking deep.
Later, as the precinct emptied and the city lights flickered on one by one, Joe sat alone in his car outside the sheriff's office. The letter rested on the passenger seat beside him, its presence a silent challenge.
His phone buzzed with a message from his wife: Dinner at home? Your daughter misses you.
He stared at the screen, heart tightening with regret. The life he fought for—his family, was slipping further away with every step he took into this dark world.
But the choice was clear.
He folded the letter again, tucked it into his jacket, and stepped out into the cool night air.
Moonstone was a city of shadows and secrets, and tonight, Joe Hawkings was ready to chase the darkness.