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I didn't tell them either. How could I? They wouldn't have believed me. Hell, part of me didn't believe it myself.

But when I looked in the mirror that first morning, I saw it, a perfect scar above where my heart was, the skin raised and darker than the rest.

It wasn't a typical scar, not jagged or puckered like something left by a knife or a bullet. This was deliberate, almost artistic in its symmetry. Twin curved wings spread outward from a central point, their edges sharp and defined like tribal markings. The lines flowed together, forming an intricate pattern that resembled a stylized phoenix or perhaps angel wings folded in prayer. As the light caught it, the scar tissue seemed to shift between deep charcoal and a silvery sheen, as if something metallic had been embedded beneath my skin.

Each curve and point was flawlessly rendered, too perfect to be an accident. My fingers traced the outline, feeling each ridge and valley of the design. It was warm to the touch, pulsing faintly with my heartbeat, alive in a way scars shouldn't be.

That was the morning I realized the world was bigger and darker than I'd ever imagined. And somewhere out there, something ancient and powerful owned a piece of my soul.

I was eight years old, and my life as I knew it was over. But a new one was just beginning.

I survived. They didn't. Why? The question haunts me still. Not just why they died, but why I lived. Was I special? Chosen? Or simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, when ancient powers needed a pawn?

Sometimes, in the darkest hours of night, I still feel the ghost of my mother's hands straightening my coat. I still hear my father's laugh rumbling through his chest. I still taste tiramisu and stolen sips of espresso. And I wonder if they would recognize the person I've become, marked and changed by powers beyond understanding.

I wonder if they would be proud.

1

THE HUNT

“Sean, this is stupid even for you,” Skye's voice crackled through the earpiece, frustration clear despite the static. “The last three hunters who went after this one never came back.”

I adjusted my shoulder holster, confirming my silver-tipped knife was within easy reach. “That's because they weren't me.”

A heavy sigh filtered through the comm. “Your ego will get you killed one of these days.”

“Hasn't yet.” I scanned the abandoned industrial complex, noting the fresh claw marks on the rusted chain-link fence. “Besides, you're the one who tracked it here.”

“I tracked it so we could call for backup,” Skye countered. “Not so you could play lone wolf hunter against an actual wolf.”

I couldn't help but smirk at the irony. “He's killed three people this month. We wait, that number doubles.”

“At least take Lex with you. He's only twenty minutes out.”

“In twenty minutes, our target could be gone.” I moved closer to the warehouse, spotting broken glass and what looked suspiciously like blood on the concrete. “I've got this, Skye. Just keep the exit route clear.”

“Fine. But Sean? If you're not responding in thirty minutes, I'm calling in everyone. And I mean everyone.”

“Understood.” I cut the connection before they could argue further.

The warehouse stank like month-old roadkill marinated in copper. Blood, fur, and fear made a cocktail that only hunters would recognize. I slipped through the broken loading dock door, breathing through my mouth to avoid the worst of it.

I moved like a ghost between the towering metal shelves, my boots silent on the concrete floor. Years of hunting had taught me how to distribute my weight, how to place each foot so even the scattered debris wouldn't betray my presence. I'd learned the hard way that monsters hear better than they should.

The silver-tipped knife felt right in my hand, comfortable as a favorite song. This wasn't just some ordinary werewolf, the kind you could put down with standard ammunition and a cocky smile. This was an alpha, old and clever, with a taste for making art out of his victims.

I'd spent enough time in this business to know my monsters. Werewolves ain't just werewolves—they're complicated bastards with their own pecking order. My old man drilled it into me from day one: “Know what you're hunting, or it'll be hunting you.”

Alphas were the top of the food chain. Bigger, stronger, meaner than the rest. Some were born that way, others clawed their way up—literally. They could change whenever they damn well pleased, not just during the full moon. Silver hurt them, sure, but you had to make it count—heart shot or decapitation. Anything else just pissed them off. They healed faster too, which was just peachy.

Betas were your standard-issue nightmare. Pack animals, loyal to their alpha. They were the muscle, the soldiers. They had some control, but the full moon still pulled their strings. Silver worked, but they weren’t slouches in the healing departmenteither. Most werewolf attacks you heard about? Betas doing the dirty work.

Then there were the omegas. Lone wolves, no pack. Sometimes they were rejects, sometimes they just preferred the solo act. They were unpredictable—often weaker without a pack’s strength behind them, but that only made them desperate. And desperate monsters made stupid, dangerous choices. They were still bound by the moon, though, which gave you a tactical advantage if you were smart about it.

One thing about all of them, though—they could smell fear like cheap cologne. They could hear your heartbeat from fifty paces. And they all had a taste for human hearts. Folklore got that part right, at least.

“Three bodies. All found within the last month. Local cops are calling it ritual killings,” Lex had said, sliding the photos across his polished desk.