I sit in my car at the Beacon Hills petrol station, unwrapping a sandwich I grabbed earlier from a deli in Pasadena. As I take a bite, the hum of the harsh fluorescent lights' overhead flickers and buzzes, throwing occasional shadows across the dashboard. Outside, the steady rhythm of passing cars creates a distant backdrop—tires whooshing on wet tarmac, engines rumbling into the evening, their sounds blending into a muffled pulse.
Several other vehicles arrive and park strategically, forming a subtle blockade around a black Camaro being refuelled. My thoughts drift to my last assignment before coming here—the alpha I took out was surprisingly weak, even with thirteen betas backing him up. If not for the criminal activities—property destruction, theft—in Phoenix, I might consider leniency. But the trauma inflicted on the young woman who witnesses her partner's violent death? That's unforgivable.
I understand werewolves are more aggressive, that the victim probably provoked them, but any challenge to me? The consequences are severe—headless consequences.
Suddenly, I hear a man speak, his voice rough: "Nice ride, though—black cars are tough to keep clean." Great. Just what I need—a tough guy. I just want to eat my lunch in peace. I squash the last of my sandwich in my mouth, wash it down with a quick drink, and focus my hearing again.
The man continues, "If you've got something this nice, you want to take care of it, right?" Yeah, this guy's here for trouble. I look down at the carrier bag and toss my rubbish before glancing up and smirking. "Well, Haohiko would be disappointed if I didn't at least mess with him," I chuckle, thinking about how he'd mess with this guy. I guess I need a laugh
I get out of the car as the tough guy adds, "I'm very protective of what I love—that's something I learned from my family." I close the door quietly and walk over slowly. I'm halfway across the fuelling station when the guy says, "There we go."
This is going to be fun, I think. The car owner adds, "You forgot to check the oil." Damn. He's asking for it—he must know what's coming. I reach into my back pocket, fingers closing around my badge, ready for the inevitable.
The man smirks, then turns around. "Check the man's oil," he tells the two men from the other car. His colleague smashes the window of the Camaro and says, "Looks good to me."
I clear my throat. The persistent hum of the overhead fluorescent lights blends with the distant growl of engines and the hiss of tires on wet pavement outside. Rain taps steadily against the petrol station roof, creating a soft, rhythmic backdrop beneath the crackling tension. I raise my badge, letting the metallic gleam catch the harsh, artificial light.
"Do we have a problem here?" I ask, my voice cutting through the background hum.
The tough guy spins around to face me, while the one who smashed the window takes a wary step back, his bravado dissolving at the sight of my badge. A lorry roars past on the road, horn blaring, punctuating the silence.
"Just a little chat about car maintenance," the tough guy responds, trying to sound casual, though his voice trembles slightly. I chuckle, nod, and ask for his name.
"Chris Argent, I am…" he begins, but I hold up my hand, the crackle of a nearby radio from the attendant's booth filling the lull.
"A licensed gun seller, also a Hunter—and it looks like you had more than just maintenance on your mind."
Chris shuffles from foot to foot, the screech of another car's brakes blending with the ambient noise of the station. His body language betrays his feigned nonchalance.
"What do you know about hunters?" he asks. I smile widely, letting the tension thicken, and speak over the soft patter of rain against the windows.
I smile widely before speaking "I know I've killed a few I know I've arrested some. I've even ripped a few apart when they went to far. I've also saved a few, helped a few and worked with some" I say as I flash my alpha eyes
The atmosphere thickens—the tension of a kettle about to boil. Chris's bravado falters as he meets my gaze, finally taking in my full size. A flicker of uncertainty flashes across his face. On the other side of the car, the two men exchange glances, their confidence wavering like the flickering overhead lights.
Part of me wants to escalate this—words sharp, movements precise. But like the werewolves I've dealt with before, raw aggression has its place. Sometimes it just simmers beneath the surface, waiting to leap.
The hunts from the other side of the car were trying to get one to speak before the one on the right said, "No harm meant."
"No harm?" I echoed, stepping into their space. "Breaking windows isn't exactly part of regular car care." I let the silence hang between us, allowing the discomfort to build. I observed them, measuring their reactions, probing for weaknesses. It was a game I knew well, one I had played countless times before with pack leaders.
I turned my head back to Chris "So I'm moving here as of today"
"Can I get your name. I feel like I know you I'm sure I do." I look to the Camaro owner. He opens his mouth to speak "Derek …" I interrupt "Hale, Derek hale, Talia's youngest boy. Your 22, only 2 years older than me, Much weaker in strength but a bit older than me. I was going to be looking for you after I settled in, just like I was with Chris."
I look between them both as a car drive past the gas station its engine roaring and the tires sounding like they could be replaced soon.
"I'm Ross Arctos, a Werebear," I say plainly. "Despite our low numbers, we're stronger than your werewolves. I've fought a lot of alphas—taken their strength, their alpha spark. I'm here for one reason: Beacon Hills is the 'Hellmouth' of the West Coast. The FBI wants someone strong here to stop idiot hunters—and egotistical supernatural's from messing up normal lives." I chuckle at the buffy reference
I then smile and repeat "The FBI wants someone strong here to stop Idiot hunters" Pointing at Chris "And egotistical stupid supernatural's from fucking up the lives of normal people, You have a problem you come to me I deal with it, don't like it leave but just so your advised, I'm going to stop the killings"
I grin to all 4 of the people around me "So I don't want no more of this, kapesh?"
The guy who broke the window, stuttered out "Okay, okay, man," the remnants of confidence fading like the last light of day.
He said, holding up his hands as if to pacify a wilful beast. "We get it; it was dumb. We'll fix it" "Good" I nod
The tension dissipated slightly as I lowered my badge ever so slightly, the latent threat transforming into a begrudging truce. "Smart move," I responded, my voice smooth but firm. "But you need to understand—next time, there might not be a warning"
"Chris, I'll be by soonish, when I have some free time, to discuss what this means for the hunters. I'll get your address from the sheriff's department. This gives you a few weeks to pass the message along—tell your hunters I'm here."
I look to Derek. "And you—where do you live? I want to talk to you about the recent killings. If I'm not mistaken, they were hunters."
Derek's jaw tightens, knuckles whitening against the Camaro's roof. "The old Hale house," he mutters, eyes flicking toward Chris with undisguised venom. "But I didn't kill anyone."
Chris shifts, fingers brushing the concealed holster beneath his jacket—a reflex I recognize instantly. The faint scent of wolfsbane oil drifts from his sleeve.
I nod, pocketing my badge. "Good. Expect me tomorrow."
Turning to Chris, I added, "And Argent? Tell your hunters to stand down. If I catch wind of another unsanctioned hunt..." I let the implication hang thick as fog, watching his throat bob as he swallowed. The fluorescent light above us flickered violently, casting jagged shadows across his face
Derek doesn't wait for farewells. He slides into his Camaro, the engine snarling to life with a guttural roar that echoes off the concrete pillars. Tires screech as he peels onto the road, vanishing into the twilight. Chris watches him leave, unreadable, then signals his men with a curt nod. They disperse like ghosts, leaving only the smell of gasoline and unresolved tension hanging in the damp air.