Update day had started to feel like a security drill.
Once upon a time, it had just been: finish the pages, hit upload, sit back and ride the dopamine wave of comments, memes, and the occasional "you saved my life" message sent at 3 a.m.
Now it was:
Draw.
Send roughs to Lucian's war room to make sure nothing in the panels accidentally exposed a safehouse, a real patrol route, or the exact angle of a camera in the B3 corridor.
Let Zara scrub the backgrounds for any intel she hadn't even realized she was slipping in.
Breathe.
Hover over the "Publish" button like it was a detonator.
"You're stalling," Zara's voice said in her ear.
"I'm thinking," Amara said, hunched over her desk. "Huge difference."
"About what, shading the wolf's jawline?" Zara said. "Post the episode, Reyes. The fandom is frothing."
"I hate that you can see my analytics," Amara muttered.
"It's literally my job," Zara said. "Also, your pre-upload heart rate. Your smartwatch is tattling. Very on-brand."
Amara glanced at the screen one more time. The new episode's title blinked back at her:
Episode 47: "Under Glass"
Panels flashed in the preview: Lucian's in-comic analog at a boardroom table, flanked by wolves and humans, gloved hands folded. A glass wall reflecting the city behind him. The heroine's narration: "It's not the teeth you see that scare you; it's the ones hiding behind contracts and smiles."
Not subtle.
"Okay," she said. "Posting."
She clicked.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the dashboard exploded—views, likes, shares ticking up in real time like a slot machine hitting jackpot.
Zara whistled softly.
"Look at them go," she said. "You broke ten thousand views in under a minute. The wolves are going to blame you for another productivity drop."
"Sorry," Amara said. "Art calls."
"Speaking of calls," Zara said, "remember the protocol."
"I know," Amara said. "No deep dives alone. Flag any weird meta. Forward leaks. Don't pick fights with conspiracy theorists in public."
"And no flirting in the comments with my brother," Zara added.
Amara rolled her eyes.
"I have never flirted with your brother in the comments," she said. "That's what private texts are for."
Zara choked.
"Okay, I'm hanging up before I hear more," she said. "Ping me if you see anything that smells like InkBetweenLines. I'll be in the cave."
Her voice clicked out.
The room went quiet.
Amara watched the numbers climb for a moment, a strange mix of pride and dread humming under her skin.
Then, inevitably, she scrolled down.
The comments section unfurled.
The first thing she saw was exactly what she'd expected:
Subscriber000 — 00:00:07
"Under glass, the cracks always start at the edges."
Seven seconds after upload.
Of course.
Amara's stomach dipped.
"Hi," she whispered to the screen. "There you are."
She'd noticed them months ago, long before the courthouse, before Lucian's scent in the hallway, before she'd known any of this was real.
Back then, Subscriber000 had just been that guy who always sniped "first" in the comments. Only they never actually wrote "first." They wrote little poems. Single lines. Cryptic haikus.
"Rivers remember where we built."
"You drew the door, they walked through. Who drew you?"
"Smoke has a favorite direction."
At first, she'd loved it. A mysterious poetic regular. Fandom had spun wild theories: Was it her alt? A friend? A secret mod?
She'd shrugged and occasionally liked their comments, enjoying the weirdness.
Then the world had tilted.
Now, "always first" didn't feel like a quirk. It felt like someone standing behind her shoulder, waiting to pounce the second her work hit the air.
She stared at the latest message.
Under glass, the cracks always start at the edges.
Cute. Vague. Harmless.
Her pulse didn't agree.
She scrolled down to see what the rest of the fans were saying.
wolfgirl420:"AAAAAAAA what was that boardroom scene?? The tension?? The way he looks at her reflection??"
PanelWitch:"Symbolism overload: glass = fragile peace, wolves in suits = capitalism with teeth, heroine's reflection = self as commodity. I'm normal about this."
GrayWolfStan:"someone please free this man from corporate hell (by which I mean his feelings)"
Normal. Loud. Familiar.
She went back up to the top.
Subscriber000's comment sat there like a hairline fracture.
She clicked on the username.
Profile: empty. No avatar, just the default outline. Joined date: almost exactly the day she'd posted the very first episode of what had then been called "wolves_in_suits_test". Activity: public likes hidden, following list private.
Comments: hundreds.
Every episode, every bonus sketch, every Q&A—always there, always within seconds of posting.
Always saying something that, in hindsight, made too much sense.
She flicked through them, heart beating faster.
Episode 7, the alley blast:
Subscriber000:"Some exits you draw yourself. Some are drawn for you."
Episode 18, the flood arc:
"When the river changes course, it doesn't warn the stone."
Episode 39, the trap:
"Only fools believe in perfect nets."
A week ago, under a casual sketch she'd posted of the city skyline:
"Pretty view. Shame about the fault line."
She swallowed.
Fault line.
Was that about the docks? The bridge? Or something closer.
She took screenshots, hands moving automatically: instinct, drilled into her now. Save. Tag. Forward to Zara.
The little typing dots in their encrypted chat popped up even before she hit send.
Zara:Already on my radar. Been trying to trace them for weeks. Slippery little ghost.
Amara:They're first again. New comment feels… pointy.
Zara:Don't engage yet. I'm setting a monitor. Just watch.
Great. Just watch.
Like that ever went well.
She refreshed.
New comments had piled up underneath.
And then she saw it.
Subscriber000 had posted a second comment.
Not a line this time.
A block.
Her blood ran cold.
Subscriber000 — 00:01:02
"Stories about wolves in suits are fun. But here's a different story for you, little artist.
Imagine a pack with its throat under glass. Human hands hold the pane in place. Human signatures keep the money flowing. Human faces smile at cameras while the wolves stand behind them and bare only human teeth.
Now imagine one of those hands has been resting on that glass for a long time. Long enough that no one notices the pressure anymore. Long enough that the fingerprints are part of the decor.
He's older than most of the wolves at the table but younger than the elders. Not blood, but old money. He's been here more than ten years and less than fifteen. He never howls, but he always hears when someone else does.
In public, he stands two steps behind your Gray wolf in photos, at his left shoulder, always just out of the spotlight. In private, he sits across from him and talks about numbers, risk, "controlling the narrative."
His smile goes wider when he thinks no one's watching. His eyes don't.
When the glass breaks, it will start at his fingertips."
The room blurred for a second.
She heard her own breathing in her ears.
More than ten years, less than fifteen.
Left shoulder in public. Across the table in private.
Controlling the narrative.
She didn't have to be a seer to fill in the silhouette.
Board member. Male. Rich. A little older than Lucian. Always hovering behind him at events.
Erikson.
Her mind flashed to the charity gala—Erikson's hand on hers, his amused little smile, the way he'd said, Bold move, bringing her here.
"Okay," she whispered. "Okay. No. No no no."
She shot the screenshots to Zara with her heart in her throat.
Amara:New comment. You see this?
Zara:Seeing it. Logging. Do NOT reply. I'm serious.
Amara set the phone down, palms suddenly slick.
Staring at the words made her skin crawl.
This wasn't like InkBetweenLines' "if this world were real" analysis. This wasn't theory.
This was a profile.
No names, no titles—but enough for anyone inside Gray's inner circle to narrow it down to a handful of suspects.
Enough for Lucian to read it and know exactly who came to mind first.
Enough for a stranger to prove that they knew what the boardroom looked like.
Her fingers twitched.
Don't reply, she thought.
Let Zara handle it. Let Lucian handle it. You're just the artist. You don't have to—
Another notification popped up.
Reply on her latest episode.
Her thumb slid before her brain caught up.
Subscriber000 replied to your episode
New comment, threaded under their own.
"Relax. I'm not here to scare your fans. They'll just think I'm making up a side character. But you should know what kind of story you're drawing yourself into."
Her cheeks burned, anger slicing through the fear.
She typed before she could stop herself.
BlackSun_92:Cool theory. This is a comic, not a corporate gossip blog. If you're trying to scare me, you'll have to work harder than cryptic metaphors about glass.
She hit send.
Almost instantly, three little dots appeared under her reply.
Her heart thudded against her ribs.
Subscriber000:"Who said I'm trying to scare you?"
The dots flickered, then:
"You're not the only one who can see ahead, little artist."
Amara's fingers went numb.
Her vision tunneled around that one line.
You're not the only one.
Like the universe had reached through her screen and flicked her exactly where she was softest.
Her head started to hurt—not the blinding agony of a forced edit, not the dizziness of a big rewind. A deep, throbbing ache behind her eyes, like two frequencies grinding against each other.
She ripped the earbud out and fumbled for her other phone.
"Lucian," she said into the call, voice shaky. "I need you to see something. Now."
He was in her doorway within minutes, no elevator, no knock—just a blur of movement and then he was there, filling the frame, chest rising a little faster than usual.
"What happened?" he asked, eyes already scanning her room for threats only he could smell.
"I didn't explode, calm down," she said, thrusting her phone at him. "Just read."
He took the device, his thumb brushing her shaking fingers.
His gaze dropped to the screen.
Silence stretched.
His face didn't change much. Lucian Gray had made a career out of keeping his expression neutral in front of cameras and investors. But Amara knew the micro-tells now: the way a muscle jumped in his jaw. The slight flare of his nostrils as he inhaled, scenting data like it was air. The almost-imperceptible narrowing of his pupils.
By the time he reached the line about "more than ten, less than fifteen," his hand had tightened around the phone so hard she heard the faint creak of plastic.
"Can you stop breaking my devices," she said automatically.
He didn't smile.
He scrolled.
He saw her reply.
His mouth twitched in something halfway between fond exasperation and strangled panic.
"You replied," he said.
"I know," she said. "You can ground me later."
He read the last comment.
You're not the only one who can see ahead, little artist.
The air changed.
Not visibly. Just a subtle pressure drop in the room, like the moment before a thunderstorm.
"Lucian," she said softly.
His eyes lifted from the screen to hers.
They were fully gold now.
Not blazing, not out of control. But present. The wolf looking out through his irises with clear, cold intent.
"Is it Erikson?" she asked, because someone had to say it. "Is that who they're describing?"
He looked back at the words.
His jaw flexed.
"It fits," he said. "Too well."
Erikson. Board member. Ten-ish years in Gray Holdings. Always two steps behind at events, always across the table in meetings. Numbers, risk, controlling the narrative.
"Could be someone else," she said quickly. "Another exec. Another board member. Maybe this person is just—"
"Guessing?" he finished, tone flat.
She shut her mouth.
He turned the phone off and set it gently on her desk, as if the words might crawl out if the screen stayed on.
"We treat it like we did InkBetweenLines," he said. "As potential intel. As potential manipulation. We don't assume it's true. We don't assume it's false."
"But if it is true," she said.
"Then someone with knowledge of our structure—and of human faces in our human world—is leaking that knowledge in your comments," he said. "And they're not just talking about pack moves now. They're pointing at very specific cracks in the glass."
He stepped closer to the window, looking out over the city. The glass pane reflected him back, faint and blurry: man, wolf, CEO, Alpha.
"Can Zara trace this one?" he asked.
"She's already trying," Amara said. "She says they're slippery. Like the other handle. It might be the same person."
"Or another," he said. "Another who can 'see ahead.'"
Something in the way he said the phrase made her skin prickle.
"Lucian," she said. "Do you know of… others? Like me?"
He didn't answer right away.
"In the old stories," he said eventually, still watching his reflection, "there were always rumors. Scribes. Seers. People whose dreams came true or whose words stuck in the world. Most packs treated them like myths. Dangerous myths. When we first realized what your comic was doing…"
He glanced back at her.
"…Eira dug through every Accord archive she could find," he finished. "Records of anyone like you. Most of them end abruptly. Burned villages. Sudden 'accidents.' People scarred by trying to drag the future into the present."
A chill ran down her spine.
"You didn't think that was worth mentioning?" she said.
He gave her a look.
"We were," he said slowly, "a little busy trying not to get you blown up."
"Fair," she muttered. "Still rude."
He looked at the phone again.
"Whoever this is," he said, "they know enough to imitate the pattern. Or they are one of the things the stories warn about."
"A seer," she said, the word tasting strange.
"A different kind," he said. "You draw. They… watch. Or write. Or map. The modes change. The effect is similar."
She hugged herself.
"And they're calling me 'little artist,'" she said. "That's not creepy at all."
"It means they've been watching you for a while," he said. "Long enough to decide they're higher on the food chain."
"Great," she said. "My new least favorite subscriber."
His mouth curved despite everything.
"I need you to do two things," he said.
"Burn the internet?" she suggested.
"Three things," he corrected. "Don't reply to them again without telling me first. Even if what they say makes sense. Especially if it does. And treat anything they write as a move in a game, not as truth from on high."
She let out a shaky breath.
"And the third thing?" she asked.
He hesitated.
"Remember that your ability to see is not the only one that matters," he said. "When they say you're 'not the only one'… they're right. You have me. You have Zara. You have an entire council of wolves who've been reading patterns long before you were born. You're not alone in this."
Her throat tightened.
"That was almost sweet," she said. "Gross."
He rolled his eyes.
"Don't get used to it," he said.
Her phone buzzed again on the desk.
They both looked at it like it had hissed.
A new notification flashed.
Subscriber000 liked your comment
Of course they did.
Lucian's fingers twitched in the air between them, as if resisting the urge to crush the device into powder.
"They're baiting you," he said softly. "They want you to engage. To ask questions. To depend on them for 'warnings.' That gives them leverage."
"So what?" she said. "We just… pretend we didn't see this?"
"No," he said. "We pretend in public. We keep building the comic. We keep smiling for the cameras. Meanwhile, we quietly test the edges of this information. We watch Erikson and everyone who fits that description. We adjust where we lean on the glass."
She pictured Erikson's hand on her at the gala. His voice: Don't let the room bite you, Miss Reyes.
"Lucian," she said, "if this is real, if he's… if someone like that is already inside…"
"I know," he said. "It wouldn't be the first time a pack trusted the wrong human. Or the wrong wolf."
He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the heat coming off his body, the steady thrum of his heart. The bond between them hummed, low and insistent.
"Look at me," he said.
She did.
"What do you see?" he asked.
"Tired eyes, bad coping mechanisms, annoyingly good bone structure," she said.
"Funny," he said dryly. "Try again."
She exhaled.
"I see a control freak who's terrified someone else is writing his story," she said.
"Accurate," he said. "Now flip it. From where I'm standing, I see a girl who thinks the only power she has is her pen. Who thinks if someone else can see ahead, it makes her smaller. Less important."
A flush rose in her cheeks.
"I don't—" she started.
He cut her off with a small tilt of his head.
"You were a threat to them before you ever posted your first panel," he said. "Not because you're the only one who can see. Because of how you choose to use what you see."
"What if I choose wrong?" she whispered.
"Then we fix it," he said. "Or we live with it. That's all any of us ever do."
His hand hovered near her shoulder again.
She let him rest it there.
"You're not the only one who can see ahead," he said, echoing the comment, but with a different weight. "You have a pack now, whether you like it or not. We read with you. We walk with you. We bleed with you. That's the difference between you and whoever's hiding behind 'Subscriber000.'"
"Maybe they have a pack too," she said. "Maybe they think they're doing the same thing."
"Maybe," he said. "We'll find out."
He stepped back.
"I'll talk to Eira," he said. "Quietly. We'll add this to the leak trap. We'll watch Erikson. And you…"
"Write the next episode," she finished for him.
He nodded.
"The best way to protect your story," he said, "is to keep telling it on your terms."
She didn't feel reassured.
She did feel… steadier.
After he left, closing the door softly behind him, Amara sat at her desk and stared at the blank canvas on her tablet.
Her fingers hovered over the stylus.
She thought of InkBetweenLines. Of Subscriber000. Of unsynced watchers in corners of galas and loading bays.
You're not the only one who can see ahead.
"Good," she said under her breath. "Maybe you'll see it coming when we catch you."
She opened a new file.
Panel one: a sheet of glass, hairline cracks spidering out from an unseen fingertip.
Panel two: a reflection in the glass—her own face, distorted.
Panel three: that same glass, but from the other side. A shadowy figure watching her, their own reflection so faint it could almost be a smudge.
She didn't try to define their features. She'd learned that lesson.
In the margin, in tiny letters, she wrote:
Not the only one. Just the one with the pen.
Her head still hurt.
Her heart still raced.
Her comment section, somewhere in the world's servers, continued to fill with jokes and theories and thirst and, hidden among them, one unnervingly calm subscriber.
The war had gained a new player with a username and a timing advantage.
Amara tightened her grip on the stylus.
If this was a narrative war, fine.
She'd fight it where she always had.
In the space between panels, where seers and schemers and wolves and humans all thought they knew how the story would go.
She was determined to prove them wrong.