The fire crackled softly in the hearth, the flames casting long, warped shadows across the ornate walls of the Thorne estate's study. The light was low, golden and flickering, barely reaching the edges of the expansive room. Ornate bookshelves towered on all sides, and the scent of aged paper, lavender polish, and something faintly metallic hung in the air.
Sheriff Nolan stood stiffly near the door, hat clutched tightly in his hands. His breath trembled in his chest as he stared across the wide office, past the expensive mahogany desk, to the silhouette by the window.
Elizabeth Thorne stood with her back to him, framed by the waning orange light of the evening sun bleeding through the glass behind her. The outline of her hourglass figure was wrapped in a charcoal-grey coat, her long black hair pulled back into a gold-clipped twist. Her posture was elegant, still, and coldly poised. Not a sound came from her. Not even the whisper of breath.
Nolan coughed, the sound too loud in the silence. "I—I didn't mean for things to go this way," he stammered. "Joe Hawkings… he's persistent. Too persistent."
Still, she said nothing.
He licked his dry lips and forced a weak chuckle. "I tried everything. Blocked the forensics report, redirected the press, even... Hell—, ven scrubbed the scene myself. But he's got traction now. And that goddamn Sutton woman's giving him a platform."
Elizabeth didn't turn.
The silence stretched so taut, Nolan began to feel like it was wrapping around his neck. He shifted on his feet, clutching his hat tighter.
Then, finally, her voice came, smooth and silken, each word gliding like a blade across velvet.
"You disappoint me, Nolan."
The sheriff's blood ran cold.
She turned slowly.
Her golden amber eyes were glowing, literally glowing, in the low light. Not with rage, but something worse. Disappointment.
"I brought you in," she said, stepping forward slowly, her heels clicking like a metronome of dread. "Not because you were the smartest. Not because you were brave. But because you were loyal."
Nolan's mouth opened but no sound came.
"I saw a weak man who could be shaped into something useful," Elizabeth continued, unbuttoning her coat with languid grace. "A man hungry enough to take power even if it tasted bitter. And now, you stand here... trembling. Because one man dared to dig beneath the surface."
She slipped the coat off her shoulders, handing it wordlessly to a silent, suited staff member who had entered without a sound. Her eyes never left Nolan's. As she unclipped her hair, it tumbled around her face in dark rivers.
"What was your job?" she asked, walking forward.
Nolan backed up half a step. "T-to keep things quiet. To cover the attack. I. I did, at first. I swear, I did."
"And yet here we are." Her voice was silk, stretching thin. "The public outraged. The truth leaking like rot from under a floorboard."
Her hands rose slowly to her blouse, undoing each button with quiet deliberation. Not sensual, ritualistic. Controlled.
"I trusted you, Nolan. I allowed you a seat at my table. I fed you power, protection… influence." Her blouse fell open. Beneath it, her skin shimmered faintly in the firelight, like polished obsidian.
"I'm sorry," Nolan whispered. "Please, Elizabeth. I tried—"
She interrupted him.
"Mrs. Thorne."
Her voice cracked like a whip.
He swallowed hard. "M-Mrs. Thorne."
She smiled, lips parting just enough to reveal the glint of white, perfect teeth. And then the fangs. Small, sharp. Growing.
The transformation began so quickly that Nolan didn't register it at first.
One blink, and she was taller. Another, and her skin rippled with dark fur. Her frame stretched, thickened, tearing fabric like paper. Muscles bulged where bone reshaped itself. Joints cracked. The sound of rending flesh and growling sinew filled the air.
Within seconds, Elizabeth Thorne stood over eight feet tall, a black and brown werewolf, her fur gleaming with an almost supernatural sheen. Feminine, yes—gracefully curved hips, lithe but muscular arms—but monstrous in scale and presence.
The mahogany desk between them felt like a joke.
Nolan's legs buckled as he fell to the floor, scrambling backward on all fours like a cornered animal.
"Please—Mrs. Thorne—I swear—"
She stepped forward. The desk snapped in two beneath one single, casual swipe of her arm. Wood splinters clattered against the marble floor. The fire behind her cast her massive silhouette across the walls, a queen of beasts.
Nolan turned to run.
She was faster.
He barely got to his feet before he was slammed against the wall, her paw-hand gripping his chest, claws digging into the fabric of his uniform, piercing skin beneath.
He wheezed, unable to breathe.
"Do you know what happens to pawns who forget they're pieces on my board?" she asked, her voice now a guttural purr, still feminine, still elegant, but threaded with the gravel of a demon.
He choked, eyes bulging, urine trickling down his leg.
"I should kill you," she whispered, bringing her snout close to his face. "I want to. But I won't."
Nolan gasped as her grip loosened. He slumped to the floor, coughing, shaking.
She turned away from him with fluid grace. "You're not worth the cleanup," she said simply.
He whimpered, crawling toward the door.
"Oh, and Nolan," she added without turning around. "Fail me again... and death will feel like mercy."
He bolted. Fumbling for the door, nearly tripping as he vanished into the hallway.
The room was silent again.
A few moments later, three workers entered, silent as ghosts. One brought her a dark silk robe and slipped it over her transformed form as she shifted back with a bone-cracking hiss. She didn't flinch. She was used to the pain. Another handed her a crystal glass of dark liquor. The third began collecting the shattered remains of the desk without a word.
Elizabeth stood near the fireplace, sipping her drink slowly. Her eyes flicked to the blood smear on the floor where Nolan had fallen.
She didn't smile this time.
She just stared, her golden eyes unreadable.
It wasn't that Nolan failed. Joe's actions were inevitable. She'd accounted for it.
But Nolan didn't know that.
And now, he feared her. Deeply.
She liked that.
A slow grin touched her lips as she turned toward the window once more, the firelight dancing behind her like a throne of flame.
***
Adam pushed open the creaking door to the abandoned gym locker room and stepped inside, immediately swallowed by stale, heavy air thick with the smell of dust, mold, and forgotten years. The dim light from a flickering overhead bulb barely cut through the shadows that clung to rusted lockers and cracked concrete walls. His footsteps echoed softly, a reminder that this place hadn't seen life in a long time.
He paused, eyes scanning the gloom. His breath came steady but cautious. The metal lockers were corroded with age, their paint peeling like dried skin. The scent of damp earth and mildew seemed to seep from the cracked floor. Somewhere, distant and faint, the slow drip of water marked time passing unnoticed.
A chill ran down his spine, but he pushed it away, reminding himself why he was here. The last place anyone would expect him to be, yet the one place he couldn't avoid.
As he rounded a corner, the harsh scrape of metal interrupted the silence. Instinct snapped him into full alert. Eight figures emerged from the shadows, five blocking the exit, two clutching worn baseball bats that caught the weak light, and three more behind, surrounding him like wolves circling prey.
At the center was Harris: tall, broad-shouldered, with his signature wild red-tipped hair and an expression that dripped with disdain. The sneer on his face was familiar, but tonight it felt colder, sharpened by years of simmering anger.
The door slammed shut behind Adam with a dull bang that reverberated in his chest. The sound sealed him inside. His skin prickled with the electric tension of imminent violence.
Harris stepped forward, his voice low and taunting. "So, you think you can fight, huh? Heard you're trying to play the big shot around here. Let's see if you can handle the real game."
Adam squared his shoulders, muscles coiling like a spring. His mind raced, calculating every angle, every possible exit, every weakness in the circle closing around him. His heart hammered but his face remained unreadable.
"Why don't we settle this, one on one?" Adam's voice was steady, but his mind screamed for space.
Harris's eyes flickered with surprise, then a cruel smile spread across his face. "You're on." He threw off his jacket, muscles rippling, stepping into the center of the circle. The others mirrored him, forming a tight ring of anticipation.
Adam peeled off his own jacket, feeling the rough fabric fall away. His senses sharpened, the cold concrete beneath his feet, the stale air choking his lungs, the heavy silence broken only by the distant drip of water.
Time seemed to slow as they closed the gap between them.
Flashbacks flared through Adam's mind, memories of a cold gym in London, his father's steady voice guiding him through the pain and discipline of martial arts training.
"Fights aren't fair, Adam," Austin's voice echoed softly. "You'll always face opponents bigger, stronger. The end justifies the means. Overestimate them. Attack fast, hit the weak points, eyes, throat, joints, solar plexus. Never give them a chance."
Adam's fists clenched as the memory grounded him.
The fight exploded into motion.
Harris lunged with a swift hook; Adam ducked low, moving on instinct. His fist shot out, landing a sharp blow to Harris's solar plexus. Harris gasped, staggering back just as Adam pressed forward, striking at the throat with precision. The bigger boy faltered, eyes wide with shock.
The blow to Harris's throat sent the bigger boy stumbling backward, clutching at his neck as his knees buckled. His back slammed against a row of lockers with a metallic thud before he dropped to the floor, gasping for air.
The circle broke.
There was a second, just a second, where no one moved. Then someone shouted, "Get him!"
They surged.
The first guy came in wide, baseball bat raised overhead. Adam didn't hesitate, he ducked low, sliding forward into the attack. With both palms, he shoved the attacker's knee sideways, a clean, practiced Krav Maga takedown. The guy crumpled with a cry, dropping the bat, which Adam kicked away with practiced precision.
Another rushed in from the right, going for a bear hug to restrain him. Adam twisted under the arms, slammed his elbow into the soft cartilage of the attacker's nose, and used the momentum to grab the boy's shirt, swinging him around and throwing him directly into a third charging from behind.
Two down, temporarily. Five left.
They closed in like animals sensing weakness.
A fourth swung at him, this time with fists. Adam blocked with his forearms, braced and swift, countering with a brutal palm strike to the chin and a fast stomp on the guy's foot. Before he could recover, Adam jammed his elbow into the guy's temple, not hard enough to concuss, but enough to disorient.
Another grabbed Adam's arm from behind. Adam twisted into the grab, dropping to one knee and leveraging his opponent's weight. The boy tumbled over him and crashed into a locker with a metallic clang.
Adam's breathing was sharp now, ragged. His muscles burned. His shirt clung to his sweat-slicked skin.
His vision blurred for a split second.
That was enough.
One of them grabbed him from the side, pinning his left arm. Another moved in, slamming a knee into Adam's ribs. Pain exploded across his side, and Adam let out a strangled grunt. He twisted violently, driving his head backward into the attacker's face, a headbutt, short-range and dirty. The guy reeled back, groaning.
Another punch grazed his jaw. A second struck his shoulder. He staggered.
Adam shoved away and spun low, sweeping his leg in a wide arc that caught one boy off his feet. As the kid crashed down, Adam pivoted, landing a quick blow to the throat of another with a flat-handed strike. The guy doubled over, coughing.
There were still three left, not counting Harris, who was now getting back on his feet, red-faced and furious.
Adam's lungs screamed for air. His movements were slowing, not for lack of training, but because his body was reaching its threshold.
He blocked a punch with his forearm, then stepped in, using his entire weight to deliver a jab to the solar plexus, but his footing slipped. He wasn't fast enough to avoid the kick that followed, smashing into his thigh.
He stumbled.
Then, crack, the baseball bat collided with the side of his head.
Then, pain exploded in his skull as a bat swung hard, connecting with brutal force. Stars burst behind his eyes. His knees buckled.
When he came to, the world tilted violently. Rough hands grabbed him, slamming him into the cold wall with a sickening crack that stole his breath.
He tried to push up but strong arms pinned him, a rough hand clamping around his throat in a chokehold.
His vision narrowed; panic clawed at his chest as air slipped away.
Harris loomed above him, taking up a bat with a wicked grin. "Think you can study your way out of this? Let's see if your brain works when it's broken."
The blow swung down.
Then—
The heavy creak of the door opening sliced through the nightmare.
A tall figure stepped inside.
Adam's eyes widened.
It was the student council president.
A wave of relief crashed over him, mixing with confusion.
Who was this guy? Why here?
The room held its breath as the president stopped, eyes cold, assessing.
The moment hung suspended, a fragile thread between salvation and something darker yet to come.