The intercom on the precinct wall crackled to life, a metallic voice slicing through the room like a blade.
"All units—priority directive from Central Command. Effective immediately: any hybrids encountered are to be neutralized on sight. No exceptions. This order is classified as Code Red. Repeat—neutralize on sight."
The words hung heavy in the air. The room full of officers froze, their pens stopping mid-scratch, conversations dying instantly. Even the buzzing lights above seemed to dim.
Dylan's stomach dropped. His knuckles tightened on the file he held until the paper nearly tore.
Hussain swore under his breath. "Neutralize? They didn't even say arrest. They mean kill."
The Chief stepped out of his office, his face grim but resolute. "Orders are orders. Hybrids are a danger to society. We move fast before panic spreads. Squad leaders, you'll be briefed on target areas in ten."
Dylan's mind reeled. He could still see her—the jaguar woman. The fear in her golden eyes, the slash of claws used not in cruelty but in survival. And now, the law had branded her nothing more than an animal to be put down.
Hussain leaned closer, whispering so only Dylan could hear. "Don't do anything stupid. I know that look in your eyes. Forget her, Dylan. It's the only way you survive this."
Dylan didn't answer. His silence was its own rebellion.
The precinct erupted into motion—guns loaded, vests strapped, radios checked. Officers prepared themselves for a hunt, not for justice but for extermination.
Dylan's heart pounded. He wasn't just a cop anymore; he was a man standing at the edge of a decision that could destroy him.
If I follow orders, I betray her. If I break them… I betray everything else.
The city streets burned with chaos. Sirens screamed through the night while gunfire echoed in the alleys. One by one, hybrids were hunted down—wolves, foxes, and scaled creatures—all falling under the merciless order. Their blood stained the gutters, their cries swallowed by the storm of boots and bullets.
The news screens downtown blared the same headline across every channel:
"CITY CLEANSED OF HYBRID THREAT – LAW ENFORCEMENT TAKES CONTROL."
The public cheered in blind relief, unaware of the slaughter hidden behind the word cleansed.
Then, at midnight, the intercom cut through the noise again. The voice was sharp, cold, clinical:
"Target located. Codename AR1e1. Subject is confirmed female, hybrid of jaguar and human. Currently exposed on the streets of Alpha Ganglion district. Unit deployment in progress."
The name hit Dylan like a gunshot. AR1e1. His pulse surged. He remembered her—those jaguar eyes, the raw strength mixed with something undeniably human.
Alpha Ganglion wasn't just a district. It was the underworld's backyard, the place even cops hesitated to enter without tanks.
Hussain spat his cigarette on the pavement, crushing it under his boot. "That's her, isn't it?" His eyes flicked to Dylan, sharp as knives. "The one you've been thinking about."
Dylan said nothing, but his clenched jaw was answer enough.
"Damn it, Dylan." Hussain grabbed his arm. "If we roll out there, she's dead. Orders are to shoot on sight. You go in trying to save her, you'll be next."
The intercom repeated, louder this time:
"Alpha Ganglion. Codename AR1e1. Neutralize immediately."
Dylan's heart pounded against his ribs. His badge weighed like a curse on his chest.
If I follow orders… she dies. If I don't… I become the enemy.
His hand drifted to the grip of his pistol. The line between cop and criminal was dissolving before his very eyes.
They ran like men who wanted the ground to open up and swallow them whole.
Alpha Ganglion smelled of oil and old blood even in daylight — the kind of place sunlight avoided. Dylan and Hussain barreled down a narrow alley, boots splashing in puddles, radios crackling orders they'd long stopped meaning to follow.
At the mouth of a collapsed doorway, between overturned crates and the black smear of a burned-out van, she huddled.
AR1e1. Half jaguar, half woman, all exhaustion: fur matted with grime, one side of her cheek torn and raw, breathing shallow and terrified. Her fingers clutched at a torn shawl around her shoulders. When she saw the two uniforms she flinched as if at a gunshot and pressed herself farther into the shadow.
"Halt! Identify!" came the distant bark over a megaphone — the precinct's intercom units swept the district, already reading the line: neutralize on sight.
Hussain's face went hard, the badge at his chest a white star beneath the grime. "She's the one," he breathed. "This is the target."
Dylan didn't answer. He took two steps forward, then stopped, eyes never leaving hers. In her pupils there was nowhere to hide — not from them, and not from whatever had pushed the city to this order.
Hussain spat into the gutter. "Dylan, we have orders. If we don't—"
"If you do, I'll never forgive myself." Dylan's voice was a rasp. He dropped his hand to the small kit at his belt and then, as if to the world, said, "AR1e1 — civilian in distress. I'm authorizing medical evac." His tone was flat, command-level, the same cadence Ali had taught him for official calls.
Hussain looked at him. "You're bluffing."
Dylan met his brother's eyes and answered, "Watch me."
A crackling voice over the intercom repeated the directive and then, beneath it, a different channel — the gangland spotters and the police tactical feed — shifted. Men on rooftops and in alley mouths keyed mics: units converged on the coordinates Dylan had just spoken. But because Dylan used his badge authority and a precise designation, the sell-off redirected two teams to the intersection three blocks over. It bought them seconds — a thin, slivered mercy.
Hussain barked, furious. "You called it wrong. They'll shoot the other site—"
"They'll clear that corner," Dylan said sharply. "That's the point. They'll think the threat's there. We get her out now."
He crouched, palms splayed and open, hands empty — not an aggressive stance but a human one. The jaguar-woman's eyes darted between the two men and then to the sky where a police drone hummed like a wasp. Her whole body trembled. She was so small in that moment, a creature who once tore wolves apart now reduced to a ragged thing that could barely stand.
Dylan slid forward on his knees until he was close enough that she could smell him — metal and rain and the hospital disinfectant that had been his second skin.
"Easy," he murmured. "I won't hurt you."
She made a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob. "I can't," she whispered. "I don't know how to—"
"You don't have to," Dylan said. He reached out gently and pressed his palm to the side of her face. Her skin was warm and trembling. In that touch was a promise he had once given Ali and now broke and remade: I will protect what you cannot protect for yourself.
Hussain kept his gun raised, breath visible in the cold. "Dylan, this is madness. If Central hears—"
"Then Central will write the truth later," Dylan replied. He looked up toward the drone and the distant megaphone, then at Hussain. "Help me lift her."
They hauled her out of the hollow, supporting her weight between them. One limp leg, a shoulder that sagged with pain — she couldn't stand on her own. A bullet of panic flashed across her face as distant shouts grew louder. Someone on a rooftop yelled coordinates; somewhere a radio barked acknowledgment.
"Move!" Hussain spat. He half-carried, half-dragged her toward the van where they'd stashed a blanket and a spare carrier. Dylan covered her as they moved, walking with his body shielding hers. A stray shout. A flash of movement down the street. A unit arriving at the wrong intersection — Dylan had turned the machine of the hunt.
They got her inside the van. For a frantic instant, hands fumbled with bandages. Dylan tore a strip from his shirt and wrapped the worst of the wounds, fingers working with a steadiness that hid how much his heart hammered. Ariel—AR1e1—pressed her face into the wool and made a small, helpless noise. She didn't lash out. She didn't even look like she could. Terror had emptied her of the hunger that had torn wolves; only fear remained.
Hussain's radio screamed that units were converging on their sector. "We're cut off in two minutes," he said. Rage and fear mixed in his voice. "We can't run a parade with that van."
Dylan met his eyes. "Then we leave on foot. We split up at the old sewer drain, I circle the east routes. You take west. Meet at the safe-house in three hours. I'll get her to a doctor who can keep her quiet."
"You're asking me to disobey a direct order." Hussain's jaw worked; he was a cop, a law in his bones. "You want me to be branded as traitor with you?"
Dylan's hand tightened on the van's doorframe. "I'm asking you to save someone who isn't hurting anyone."
For a long breath, Hussain said nothing. Then, with a strangled sound between a laugh and a cry, he gripped Dylan's forearm. "We do it," he said. "But if this blows up—if this kills us—don't make me regret it."
Dylan slid into the driver's seat and glanced back at AR1e1. She looked at him, eyes wide and feral, hurt and small. For a second she tried to form a word, and it came out ragged: "Dylan."
The name hung in the van like a prayer.
Dylan swallowed and slammed the door. "Hold on," he said. Then, with the engine barely a whisper, he drove them away from the corner where the wrong coordinates had already blown open into gunfire and shouts — toward a city that had already decided she was a monster. Toward a sanctuary that might not be safe. Toward a choice that would mark them all.
Outside, beneath the hum of helicopters and the roar of a city that wanted clean answers, Dylan kept his eyes on the road and on the single line that mattered: he had chosen.
The van's tires hissed against wet asphalt. Inside, the silence was so heavy that even the drone of the engine sounded like a heartbeat.
From the blanket in the back, the jaguar-woman stirred. Her golden eyes flicked open, wild but searching. Her voice was hoarse, weak, trembling — but she forced the word out:
"…Dylan."
He froze at the wheel. His name from her lips struck harder than the sirens that howled distantly in pursuit. Slowly, he turned his head.
"You—how do you…"
She lifted a trembling hand, brushing across her lips as though speaking had cost her too much. Then her claws — dulled by weakness — pointed toward his chest. His badge gleamed faintly in the dim.
"I read it," she whispered. "On your badge."
The admission was so simple, yet it carried the weight of fate itself. Dylan gripped the wheel tighter, his knuckles pale.
She swallowed, then asked the question with all the fragility of someone who expected death:
"…Why are you saving me?"
Dylan's chest rose and fell. Words caught like thorns in his throat. At last, he exhaled, eyes locked on the rain-streaked road.
"I don't know," he said softly. "Nor do I want to. The feeling I have—it's confusing. It's heavy. Hard to explain. But…" He glanced into the rearview mirror, meeting her gaze for just a heartbeat. "It's stronger than the orders in my ear. That's enough."
Her lips trembled, and for the first time, the jaguar-woman's eyes softened.
They reached the safe house. A rundown clinic hidden behind the shuttered remains of a pawn shop. The sign outside flickered half-dead, but inside the air smelled of alcohol and medicine.
Waiting there was a man in his late forties, thick glasses perched on his nose, sleeves already rolled as if he had known trouble was on its way.
"Dylan!" he snapped, voice gruff but steady. "What have you dragged in now?"
"Dr. Mario," Dylan said quickly, pulling the limp hybrid into the room. "She's bleeding out. She'll die if we wait."
Mario's sharp eyes scanned the jaguar-woman and then flicked back to Dylan. Something unreadable flickered in them.
"You understand what this means, don't you?" Mario asked coldly. "She's not human. The precinct, the gangs—everyone will want her gone."
"I don't care," Dylan shot back, desperation bleeding through. "Save her."
Mario held his stare for a long beat. Then he sighed, grabbing his gloves. "You're Ali Vefa's boy now, aren't you? That means his blood runs through your promise." He looked down at Ariel. "And I swore to Ali I'd save anyone tied to his line, by blood or by choice."
Without waiting for permission, Mario motioned them to bring her to the table. His hands moved with the speed of experience — gauze, disinfectant, sutures, everything laid out in seconds.
"Hold her steady," Mario ordered. Dylan pressed gently against her shoulder, feeling her breath rise and fall like shallow waves.
As Mario worked, Dylan kept his eyes on Ariel. Her gaze was glassy, fading in and out of consciousness. But she was alive.
Alive because of a choice he couldn't explain. A choice that felt both impossible and inevitable.
And in that dim-lit room, with Mario fighting to keep her tethered to life, Dylan realized the truth that would haunt him for years:
The night he chose her was the night he stepped away from being a cop—
And began the path toward becoming Dylan Dicosta.
The room was quiet except for the steady beep of the heart monitor. Ariel's lashes fluttered. Her chest rose sharply, and golden eyes opened to the dim ceiling of the safe house.
Warmth pressed against her. She looked down—
Dylan's head rested lightly against her chest, his arm draped across her as though he were shielding her from the whole world.
Her eyes widened.
SLAP!
The sound cracked through the air. Dylan's head jerked back as her hand left a stinging mark across his cheek.
"Pervert!" she hissed, her jaguar fangs flashing. "How dare you—!"
But Dylan didn't move away. Instead, he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her into a sudden, desperate embrace. His voice trembled, yet burned with a raw truth.
"From the day I saw you, Ariel… I haven't been able to forget you. Not your eyes, not your strength, not the way you fought even when the world wanted you dead. I—I like you. More than I can understand."
Her tail betrayed her. It flicked once, twice—then began to wag, betraying a joy she refused to admit. Yet her face hardened, lips curling back in anger.
"You…" she growled. "You tried to kill me."
"No!" Dylan's grip tightened, his forehead pressing against hers. "I never did. I let them shoot at shadows. I let them believe. Every second I fought the urge to obey, I chose you. Do you understand? I chose you, Ariel."
Her golden eyes narrowed. The fury in them was real. But so was the tremor in her chest, the heat that rose to her face, the wild confusion that tore her in two.
For the first time in her life, someone who could have destroyed her… was holding her like she was the only thing left worth saving.
The hospital ward hummed with the faint rhythm of machines, Rodey's breaths hissing faintly through the ventilator. Alikae sat by his side, head bowed, his hand still resting protectively near Rodey's arm even in sleep.
Dylan stood at the doorway, silent. His eyes softened, shadows of old memories flickering behind them. Ariel's golden eyes, Hussain's determined glare, Ali's dying words — all tangled inside him.
So much time has passed, Dylan thought, and yet here it is again. History… repeating itself.
He stepped closer, his coat brushing against the sterile floor. Rodey stirred faintly in the bed, his chest rising shallow but steady. Dylan's heart tightened.
"They don't even realize…" he whispered to himself. "They don't realize how much they remind me of us. Me and her. Me and Hussain."
His gaze shifted to Alikae, who clenched Rodey's hand even in his sleep, as if refusing to let go.
"You're just like Hussain," Dylan murmured under his breath. "The loyal one. The one who stands guard when the world collapses." His eyes then moved to Rodey's pale face. "And you… Rodey. You're me. Stubborn, reckless, carrying the weight of everyone but yourself."
A sharp ache cut through Dylan's chest. For a moment he swore he could see Ariel in the shimmer of the glass window — her tail swaying, her fangs bared, her eyes filled with both rage and longing.
Deniz, leaning against the far wall, caught the look on Dylan's face and smirked.
"Careful, old man," he said. "You're starting to look like a poet. Don't tell me you're seeing ghosts in these kids."
Dylan didn't answer him. His fists tightened.
"They're not ghosts," he whispered, more to himself than to anyone else. "They're my last chance."
From the shadows, Deniz tilted his head, spoon of cornflakes in his mouth as if the hospital had no rules for him. His grin curved sly.
"Last chance? Wait—hold on. Author didn't tell me you're dying. Oi, Author, is this some hidden plot twist?" He pointed to the ceiling. "Because if the next arc is mine, then it's mine. No take-backs."
Dylan turned sharply, jaw tight. "Deniz—"
"Forget it," Deniz interrupted with a wave of his hand, though his smirk softened. "Anyways… I'm sorry, Dylan. For your loss. I might roast the Author, I might act the bastard—" he paused, looking at Rodey's fragile frame, "—but I wasn't told to break him. I was told to teach him. About real fights. About assassins, about guns. Not… not to play until he collapsed."
For once, Deniz's voice wasn't mocking. His eyes flicked toward Rodey, still fighting his way back to life.
Dylan's hands clenched behind his back. "And yet you nearly pushed him into the grave."
Deniz's smirk faltered, but only for a moment. He shoved his hands into his pockets, glancing away. "Yeah. And he nearly slit my throat. Guess we're even."
The room fell silent, tension curling in the air — Dylan's grief, Deniz's guilt, Rodey's fragile breaths, Alikae's stubborn watch.