Six months ago. Mark

  For a while, he just stood there, leaning into the wall, trying to pull himself together. His hands were shaking. Then, slowly, as if moving through thick fog, he headed for the exit. Walked past security — past that same empty post. Got into the car, slammed the door shut.

  He sat there, breathing hard. Needed to clean up. Get his shit together. He reached for the glove compartment — and that's when he noticed it: at the very bottom lay the recorder. Neat, gray, with a red button. Strob had left it yesterday, forgotten it on the desk. Mark had meant to return it today. He hadn't wanted to bother him last night — the guy would've flipped if you interrupted him without a damn good reason. And Mark had been in a hurry. So here it was.

  Mark grabbed some tissues, wiped his mouth, face, hands. Glanced at the recorder. Then shoved the tissues back into the glove box, right on top of it. No need for it lying out in the open. And if anyone did take a look — they probably wouldn't want to dig through puke.

  He fumbled with the key, finally started the engine. His mind was almost blank — not silence, but something worse. Dull. Stripped. The meds had taken the edge off the shift — dulled the other side of him to a crawl. Goddamn full moon. He'd doubled the dose just to stay in control, and now he was almost human. The reflexes were still there, more or less. But the instincts — the senses — were buried. He felt exposed. Fragile. And his hand wouldn't stop shaking.

  An hour to the city, and not a soul between. Twenty kilometers of forest to get to the highway. The only way out. He wasn't even on shift — just showed up earlier than the rest. At first, he didn't give a damn if anyone saw him bolt. His brain was still caught in panic mode, even if he was trying to hold it together.

  The car rolled forward. As the forest began to thin out, his thoughts started to arrange themselves. Mark realized he had to warn someone. Not security — they might already be gone. He dialed Evan. Long rings. Then a curt:

  — What is it, Mark? — The voice was sharp, as if cut off from something.

  — It's a slaughter. I went in. Blood everywhere. Everything was red. And the fingers... Goddamn. Just a mess. I don't think anyone made it. I didn't check — honestly, I couldn't. I left. I couldn't stay. I... I threw up. — He stopped, gripped the wheel tighter.

  A pause. Then:

  — Got it, — Evan said, and hung up.

  Mark had expected more. Questions. Instructions. Anything — something horrific had gone down back there. But Evan... yeah. Classic Evan. Cold as ever.

  Less attention. Less curiosity. Slim chance anyone would ever find out what he had stashed in the glove compartment. Maybe the only key to understanding what was happening. What had already happened.

  Enough!

  Mark hit the clearing and stepped on it. He wouldn't stop till he was far, far away. Home, maybe. Though... a quick stop at the liquor store wouldn't hurt. He needed something sharp — something that could scorch the stench of all this shit off his tongue.

  *************************************************************************************************************************

  Present day. The shadow

  The night was clear and calm. Streetlights cast cozy islands of warm light, and the few people outside moved with familiar, unhurried steps. Everything looked... normal.

  And it was in that very normalcy that something faltered—just for a second.

  A man walking his dog came to a sudden stop. He looked up. His brows pulled together—something was there. A shadow. Massive.

  Something was moving overhead...

  The dog barked.

  He hushed it and tilted his head to the sky.

  And then—

  A click. A faint, barely there impulse.

  He blinked, and a vague blankness crossed his face.

  "Nothing unusual," he muttered to himself without realizing, and tugged on the leash.

  A courier on an e-bike slowed down, glanced up—his gaze lingered on the sky.

  His pupils widened for a heartbeat. Fingers trembled lightly on the handlebar.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Then he gave a short huff, glanced down at his screen, and rode off.

  Nothing unusual.

  A girl with coffee paused at the crosswalk. Her breath caught.

  A twist of unease curled in her stomach.

  The shadow—huge—passed over the asphalt, blotting out the moon for a moment.

  Too large.

  Too... unreal.

  And then—another click.

  Like a brief command deep inside her mind.

  She blinked. Shrugged.

  Nothing unusual.

  If someone later reviewed the security footage, they might have noticed a distortion.

  A faint flicker in the pixels.

  If someone had studied the neural signals of those nearby, they would have seen a brief spike.

  A micro-command. A flash in the limbic system.

  A trace erased.

  But no one reviewed.

  No one studied.

  Because the ancient aren’t always old.

  Some of them just learned how not to be seen.

  The shadow slid over Gerda’s building like a cloud—only denser, too sharply shaped.

  For a moment, the whole block dimmed in soft twilight.

  No one paid it any mind.

  A click—

  And everything went back to the way it was.

  *********************************************************************************************************************************************

  Chris stood at the entrance, squinting slightly as he looked at the door. "Nothing unusual," he said aloud, his voice laced with a faint, almost lazy smirk.

  He touched the lock. Just barely. A magnetic pulse, a shift. The metal yielded with a quiet click. Old tech. Reliable. Just not against him. He stepped inside, closed the door behind him without a sound. No traces. Times were changing. Fast. But old caution had never hurt anyone.

  The apartment greeted him with silence and the slow rhythm of sleep. Gerda lay curled up, one arm stretched along the pillow, the other pressed to her chest. The blanket had slipped down. Ankles bare. Lips parted. Her breath was uneven, as if still tangled in the struggle of her dream.

  He walked up without a word. Crouched down by the foot of the bed.

  She didn’t wake. Just stirred a little, a soft breath escaping her lips. She looked calmer tonight than last time…

  "A child," he thought. "What are you... twenty-five? Thirty? Grown by your kind’s standards. But really—a pup. Untested. Not even through your first shift."

  He pulled a small case from his pocket, pressed his fingers to his wrist to trigger the implant, syncing them. A soft pulse. A link snapped into place.

  A tiny marker, no larger than a speck of dust, drifted from his fingers and floated gently through the air. A second later—it landed at the base of Gerda’s neck. A faint tickle. A ripple across her skin.

  Linked.

  A streak of heat flashed through Chris’s wrist. Contact confirmed.

  Now I know where you are. How you are. If things go sideways—I’ll know.

  He rose. Paused. His instincts wanted more.

  He could feel her warmth. Her scent. That kiss in the club... Not now.

  He turned away, walked to the window, looked into the dark city. Sometimes the city sleeps—just before dawn.

  Let her run with the pups. Pitt knows what he's doing. He’ll help her find balance, come into her own.

  Chris traced a line on the cold glass, as if drawing a boundary. For now.

  He sighed.

  Should probably call Ingra, Chris thought. Clear the system a bit. She was always glad to see him. Always easy. No drama, no instincts flaring—just someone who never asked what he was doing in the middle of the night.

  He glanced back at Gerda. Smirked faintly. Then vanished.

  Leaving behind only a faint scent of ash. And a thinner trace still—like the echo of a thought.

  Heat streamed through her body—not burning, but filling her. Like light from within, spreading through her limbs. Gerda wasn’t afraid. She didn’t think. She just felt. As if all of her—body, soul, instinct—had finally begun to speak the same language. A language of touch. Of warmth. Of pulse.

  Chris was there. Standing still, watching. Not touching—and he didn’t need to. One glance from him was enough to make her reality melt, dissolve into sensation.

  Then—something clicked. Softly. Deep inside. No pain. No flare. Like a door opening without a sound.

  Her sleep sank deeper. Calmer. Still.

  But elsewhere, across the city, Chris’s implant buzzed with a brief vibration. He didn’t register it right away—only felt the heat rise through him.

  Link active. Confirmed.

  Now he’d know if anything went wrong. If panic surged, or pain, or raw instinct took over—he’d feel it. She wasn’t alone anymore. Even if she didn’t know it.

  But Chris wasn’t made of stone.

  The return impulse hit harder than expected. His body answered back—too vividly. A rush of need. Tension in his muscles. Heat in his blood. He knew it was just feedback, physiology, the aftereffect of the link... but that didn’t make it feel any less real.

  He cursed under his breath and bolted. Barefoot, shoes in hand, chasing sensation—the cold pavement, sharp pebbles, the sting of night air. He ran through the street, away from her place. Not like a man. Like something wilder, letting the current burn itself out. Under streetlights. Into wind. Toward the cold.

  Under the moon. The full moon.

  Good thing his kind didn’t react much to it. Still—it was best to blunt the edges.

  He ran toward the city’s edge, to the club lot where he’d left his car. The run cooled him. The heat cleared. His head returned.

  "Bit much," he muttered, catching his breath. "Wolf-girl. Figures."

  He pulled out the capsules—two of them. Mark had warned him. Double dose. Stronger than usual. Might hit sideways, Mark had said. Chris turned them over in his palm, almost absently. The effect was still present, fading gradually. He could allow himself this. Just needed the sharpness to ease off.

  "Just what I need," Chris said into the dark. "Cold head. That’s all I need right now."

  He swallowed the capsules and closed his eyes.

  "That girl’s got a mess coming her way…" he said with a half-smile. "But I’ve got time. Maybe I’ll take Ingra somewhere. Clear the air.""

  He got into the car. Took a long breath. Stared into the dark, unsure whether he was running from her—or from himself.