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Prescott

I ’m watching her panic through five different camera angles when she bursts onto the terrace.

Ruby Wolfhart—all five-foot-seven of wild red hair and fury—gasping for air twenty stories above Shiftown like she’s just outrun a predator.

Which, technically, she has.

My brother, to be specific.

Hamilton has that effect on females, though usually they’re running toward him, not away.

But Ruby’s different.

She’s always been different

She’s bolting for the terrace like the building’s on fire, which it isn’t—I’d know, since I designed every security system in this place. Including the one that’s currently tracking her every move with annoying precision.

Hamilton’s orders; my execution.

Zooming in on her disheveled clothes and the unmistakable scent-markers my system picks up. Those are new—my latest algorithm can detect pheromone signatures through visual cues alone.

My system confirms what I already know: She’s been thoroughly… Hamiltonized.

I sigh, adjusting my glasses.

“For fuck’s sake, Hamilton,” I mutter into my empty office, which looks more like a server room.

I’ve spent most of my life in rooms just like this one—climate-controlled, humming with technology, comfortably devoid of social complexities. But the digital feeds streaming across my monitors bring all those complexities right to me, whether I want them or not.

The Pred Tracker 9000, as I secretly call it (we officially named it “Urban Wildlife Movement Analysis System” for the permits), was Hamilton’s pet project. “Build me something that can track throughout all of Shiftown,” he’d demanded.

The first version was simple enough—facial recognition and gait analysis. But Hamilton kept wanting more. More precision. More detail. More… everything. I added thermal imaging, scent detection, behavioral algorithms.

But Ruby?

Ruby gets special treatment.

A dedicated algorithm all her own.

By version 4.0, I could tell you what Ruby had for breakfast based on her micro-expressions alone.

“She’s a liability,” Hamilton had insisted. “We need to know her movements.”

I sigh and rub my temples.

The surveillance system pings softly, facial recognition confirming Ruby’s identity for the thirty-seventh time today.

Thirty-seven.

“Alert: Target Subject Wolf-Ruby-One present on secure floor. Alert: Target Subject shows distress indicators. Alert: Target Subject in restricted area.”

“Mute alerts,” I mutter, and the system obediently goes silent, still flashing its warnings across my screen. The cameras continue their silent vigil, cataloging Ruby’s movements from every angle.

I should feel creepy about this level of monitoring, but honestly, it’s become routine. Hamilton has me tracking half the predator population of Shiftown.

But I’m also not an idiot.

My brother doesn’t invest millions in surveillance tech for business purposes alone.

He’s obsessed with her.

Has been since she rejected him that first time at the zoning board meeting.

Hamilton Porkwell doesn’t get rejected.

It broke his brain.

On my central monitor, Ruby pushes her hands through her hair, taking deep breaths. The audio feed picks up fragments of her self-talk.

“Stupid, stupid wolf… What were you thinking?… His scent is all over you now…”

I probably shouldn’t be listening. But that’s my job—knowing things.

Information is how I contribute to Porkwell Development while my brothers handle the more public-facing roles.

Percy designs stunning buildings, Hamilton closes impossible deals, and I…

head up our tech division, ensuring they have every advantage technology can provide.

I pull up the log files from earlier today.

Yep, there it is.

Camera 17-B, stairwell between floors 21 and 20. Motion sensors activated, facial recognition confirmed: Hamilton Porkwell and Ruby Wolfhart. Audio sensors picked up… well, exactly what you’d expect when a wolf and a pig who supposedly hate each other find themselves alone in a stairwell.

I shut that file before the sound can play.

Some things a brother doesn’t need to hear, especially when it involves Hamilton in full rut.

Been there, heard that, have the therapy bills to prove it.

The surveillance system is just one of my contributions to Porkwell Tech. Most people don’t realize that half the “smart city” infrastructure in Shiftown runs on my algorithms. The traffic light system that adjusts for different species’ walking speeds during rush hour?

Mine.

The water conservation grid that reduced consumption by 30% last year?

Also mine.

The emergency response system that can distinguish between a fox shifter’s playful yip and a legitimate cry for help? That took two years of acoustic analysis and machine learning.

The system has also helpfully cataloged Ruby’s visit to our penthouse last week, specifically Percy’s and Hamilton’s bedrooms. The latter featuring a hilarious display of Ruby marking Ham’s bed with her scent.

What I can’t understand is why Hamilton is so fixated on Wolfstone. It’s not even in our priority development queue. The tech campus on the north side would generate four times the revenue with half the environmental complication.

But no—Hamilton insists on developing the one patch of land that happens to be ancestral wolf territory. The one project guaranteed to bring Ruby Wolfhart growling into our lobby every other week.

Then again, maybe that’s the point.

Before Ruby, the three of us shared everything. Females included. It was never complicated—no jealousy, no possessiveness. Just Porkwell boys being Porkwell boys, as our father used to say with that disturbing wink of his.

But Ruby changed the dynamic.

Percy got defensive after their night together, keeping details to himself that he’d normally share over morning coffee.

And Hamilton? He’s been checking the Pred Tracker logs daily, scrolling through footage of Ruby like some lovesick teenager.

On screen, Ruby looks up directly at Camera 72. She can’t possibly know it’s there—I designed it to be invisible, even to enhanced wolf senses—but her gaze sends a chill down my spine, anyway.

“I know you’re watching,” she says.

She doesn’t, of course. She’s just venting. But for a second, I feel exposed.

I switch to thermal view, monitoring her vital signs. Elevated heart rate, but decreasing. The panic is subsiding. Still, she looks lost out there, trapped between sky and pavement with nowhere to run.

Something twists in my chest. I’ve always liked Ruby. Not in the way my brothers do—with their primal, possessive hunger—but in a way that’s harder to define.

She treats me like a person, not a Porkwell. When we’ve crossed paths at city meetings, she asks about my projects with genuine interest. She remembered my obscure reference to quantum computing last month.

Most females only see what they can get from a Porkwell. Ruby sees… me. She looked at me like I was a person worth knowing, not just a Porkwell worth using.

I close the monitoring screens with a decisive keystroke and stand up. I should just stay here, safe in my digital fortress. Let Hamilton and Percy handle their wolf problem.

But that’s the thing—she’s not a problem.

She’s a person. A passionate, intelligent person currently having a panic attack on our terrace because my brothers can’t keep their snouts out of places they don’t belong.

I grab a bottle of water from my mini-fridge. My reflection in the glass door looks back at me—disheveled dark hair, glasses slightly askew, the least imposing of the three Porkwell brothers.

“This is probably a mistake,” I tell my reflection.

Yet I’m already heading for the elevator, rehearsing what to say. How to approach a distressed wolf without getting my face bitten off.

The elevator hums softly as it carries me. Camera feeds inside the car show me from four angles—rumpled button-down with yesterday’s coffee stain I thought no one would notice, and the awkward hunch of someone more comfortable with machines than mammals.

Not exactly knight-in-shining-armor material. But maybe that’s not what Ruby needs right now.

As the door slides open on the terrace, the afternoon sun momentarily blinds me. I blink, adjusting to natural light for what feels like the first time in days.

And there she is—Ruby Wolfhart, silhouetted against the city skyline, wild and beautiful and utterly out of place in our sterile corporate world.

I step forward, the water bottle cold in my sweaty palm, wondering if I’ve made a terrible mistake.

* * *

Ruby doesn’t hear me approach until I’m about ten feet away. When she finally senses me, she whirls around like she’s ready to fight or flee—probably both.

Her eyes are wild, pupils dilated, and there’s a red spot on her neck that looks suspiciously like my brother tried to bite her.

I hold up the water bottle as a peace offering, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible. Which, let’s be honest, isn’t hard for me. I’m the Porkwell least likely to be featured in “Shiftown’s Most Eligible Bachelors.”

“It’s just water,” I say, extending my arm while maintaining a safe distance. “No roofies, I promise. Though I can’t speak for what Hamilton keeps in his office.”

She doesn’t laugh.

“What do you want, Prescott?” She sounds almost defeated.

I place the water bottle on the concrete planter between us and take two steps back. “You looked like you could use it. Also, jumping from this height would be messy for everyone involved, especially the cleaning staff. Robert just power washed the sidewalk.”

Ruby eyes the bottle suspiciously before snatching it up. She cracks the seal and takes a long drink. Her throat works as she swallows, and I notice the subtle tremble in her hands.

“I hate your brothers,” she says flatly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “No offense.”

“None taken. They’re an acquired taste that I’m still acquiring after twenty-nine years.” I lean against the terrace railing, careful to leave plenty of space between us. “Hamilton can be… intense.”