I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
________________________________________
Chapter Forty-Five: A Wolf Among Them
Officer Bishop's Perspective
The house loomed at the end of the street, shrouded in shadow and neglect. Even from the curb, it radiated an aura of unease—a sense of abandonment so profound it seemed to warp the air itself. The paint was peeling in long, curling strips, exposing grey, weather-beaten wood beneath. Windowpanes, streaked with grime, reflected the dying light in a way that made the whole structure look less like a home and more like the memory of a nightmare—a place where bad things had happened and might still be happening, if you dared to look too closely.
As I stepped out of the squad car, the air seemed to thicken, heavy with the scent of damp earth and something else—something metallic and sharp that made my stomach twist. I reached for my sidearm automatically, the familiar weight of it grounding me as I scanned the yard for movement. My partner, Martinez, was already halfway up the cracked walkway, his posture tense, his hand hovering near his holster. Every line of his body spoke of caution, of anticipation, as if he too could feel the wrongness coiling around this place.
The front door yawned open. Not broken, not splintered, not even scratched—just open, as if someone had left in a hurry or, worse, was waiting for us inside. It was the kind of detail that set my nerves on edge. I glanced at Martinez, catching the flicker of anxiety in his eyes. His jaw was clenched tight, and when he spoke, his voice was low and urgent. "You think someone beat us here?"
I didn't answer. There was no point in speculating—not when every second mattered. Instead, I signaled to the rest of the team to spread out, four units in all. Backup had arrived quickly, the urgency in the dispatcher's voice still echoing in my ears. We moved as one, training and adrenaline guiding our steps as we approached the threshold.
Inside, the living room was the first thing we saw—and it stopped us in our tracks. The air was thick with the coppery tang of blood, and the silence was absolute, as if the house itself was holding its breath. There, sprawled on the faded carpet, was the man we'd seen in the surveillance footage. His cap lay discarded on the table beside him, and his body just lying on the ground. But it was his throat that drew the eye—a gaping, ragged wound where flesh had been torn away, as if by the jaws of some ravenous animal. Blood had soaked deep into the fibers of the rug, pooling beneath him in a dark, spreading stain. His eyes, wide and glassy, stared up at the ceiling in a final, silent scream.
There were no bullet holes, no signs of a struggle—just the brutal, clinical violence of something fast and merciless. I felt a chill crawl up my spine.
"Jesus," Martinez whispered, carefully stepping around the corpse, his voice barely more than a breath.
I forced myself to focus, to keep my hands steady. "Check the rest of the house," I said, my voice sounding steadier than I felt. "Go slow. Watch each other's backs."
We cleared the ground floor room by room, every shadow a potential threat, every creak of the floorboards setting my nerves on edge. But there was nothing—no movement, no sound except our own careful footsteps. Upstairs was the same: empty bedrooms, dust motes swirling in the shafts of light from the hallway windows. It was as if the house had been abandoned for years, save for the horror in the living room.
That left one place: the basement.
We regrouped at the door, its surface scarred and splintered with age. My hand shook slightly as I reached for the handle, the wood rough beneath my palm. The hinges groaned as I pushed it open, the sound echoing down the narrow staircase. Martinez took point, his flashlight cutting a narrow beam through the darkness. I followed close behind, the other officers covering our backs.
Each step down felt like a descent into another world—a colder, darker place where the rules of reality seemed to bend. The stairs protested under our weight, the sound unnaturally loud in the hush. At the bottom, we paused, senses straining for any sign of movement.
Then we saw her.
Chloe sat cross-legged on the cracked concrete floor of a small room at the back of the basement. She looked impossibly calm, her face lit by a gentle, almost dreamy smile. Beside her, sprawled with an ease that belied its size, was a wolf. Not just any wolf—a massive, black-furred beast with eyes that glowed a deep, unnatural red in the beam of our flashlights. It watched us with a gaze that was both intelligent and unsettling, its head lifting slowly as we entered.
Martinez's voice was barely a whisper, thick with disbelief. "No way. That's not just a wolf—look at the size of it."
One of the rookies, Nelson, lost his composure. His hand trembled as he raised his weapon, finger tightening on the trigger. Before any of us could react, the wolf's eyes seemed to flare, catching the light in a way that made my heart stutter. It was just a trick, I told myself—a reflection, nothing more.
But Nelson's face drained of color. His knees buckled, and he crumpled to the floor, his gun skittering away into the shadows.
The wolf stood, unfolding itself with a grace that was almost regal. It regarded us for a long, silent moment—no growl, no bared teeth, just a deep, unwavering intent in its stare. Then, without a sound, it turned and padded past us, moving with the silent confidence of something that knew it had nothing to fear. It climbed the stairs, its massive form slipping into the darkness above without so much as a backward glance.
"Bye, doggy!" Chloe called after it, her voice bright and cheerful, as if she were waving goodbye to a friend at the park.
We stood frozen until the last echo of its footsteps faded and the oppressive weight in the air finally began to lift. Only then did Martinez let out a shaky breath. "What the hell was that?"
I didn't answer. There were no words for what we'd just seen. Instead, I crossed the room to Chloe, kneeling beside her. She looked up at me, her eyes clear and unafraid.
"Hey there, sweetheart," I said softly. "You okay?"
She nodded, clutching a battered stuffed animal to her chest. "The doggy kept me safe. He was nice."
I swallowed hard, fighting to keep my voice steady. "Yeah… he's a good one."
I picked her up gently, wrapping her in my jacket.
"Let's get you back to your mom."
As I carried her up the stairs, her small arms wrapped around my neck, I couldn't shake the feeling that the real story here—the one that mattered—had already left the house.
We were just here to pick up the pieces.