The tension in the foyer hadn't fully settled. It lingered like smoke after a gunshot—thick, acrid, refusing to dissipate.
Mark was still catching his breath, one hand pressed lightly against his side. Iris stood beside him, annoyance flashing in her eyes, while Simon watched everything with careful, calculating silence.
Luke's gaze returned to Mark as though the brief clash had never happened.
"Back to the real question." A pause. "How did you get those injuries?"
Mark clenched his jaw, irritation still simmering beneath the surface. "I fought a witch. A few days ago." His hand moved instinctively toward the wound. "Stuff like this should've healed by now, but—"
"It's not healing at all… is it?" Luke finished, calm and certain.
Mark looked at him, surprised. "Yeah." Another pause. "Not at all." His voice dropped. "Even the bleeding won't fully stop."
Luke nodded once, as if confirming something he had already suspected. "It won't."
Silence stretched for a beat.
"Injuries caused by magic…" Luke's tone shifted subtly, "don't follow natural rules."
Mark frowned. "What does that even mean?"
Luke looked at him properly now—not as a reckless kid, but as a case to be examined. "It means your body can't fix what it doesn't understand. Magic damage… needs magic to heal."
The words landed heavily.
Mark's expression shifted, genuine concern creeping in. "So what—this just stays like this?"
Luke gave a slight shrug. "Unless you find a witch willing to help you… yes."
Iris stepped forward suddenly, hope brightening her face. "Clara!" She turned to Mark. "We can ask Clara, right? She can help you!"
Luke's eyes narrowed slightly. "You already know a witch?" A faint pause. "That's rare."
Simon let out a small breath and crossed his arms. "Yeah… well, that's the problem." He shrugged. "She hasn't been to school since she met Harvey. And she's not picking up any calls."
A small silence followed.
Then Mark spoke, more certain now. "She'll show up."
Both Iris and Simon looked at him.
"There's a banquet coming up," Mark continued. "All Eight Royal Families will be there."
Luke didn't move, but something in his posture changed—subtle, almost imperceptible.
"Clara will be there," Mark added. "Not just her… her entire coven."
Luke's ears twitched. That detail hadn't escaped him.
Simon blinked. "Wait…" He looked between them. "Why would witches attend a wolf banquet?"
Mark exhaled. "Because it's not just a banquet." A beat. "It's an alliance."
Silence.
Luke spoke for the first time with a visible crack in his composure. "What?" Not loud. But sharp. "Witches… joining hands with wolves?"
It didn't sit right with him. Not at all.
Witches don't align, he thought. They leverage. They manipulate. They don't stand beside anyone… They stand above them.
His gaze darkened slightly. Something's wrong.
Luke stepped closer to Mark. "When is this banquet?"
Mark shook his head. "Not finalized yet." A pause. "I'll know once the invitations go out."
Luke nodded slowly, mind already turning, calculating. Then a faint smirk returned to his lips.
"Good." A measured breath. "Now we're talking."
He turned away as if the conversation had reached its natural end. "Looks like I'll be attending."
With that, he took a step, then another, and just like that—Luke Ross left the foyer, his presence fading down the hallway like a shadow slipping back into the night.
The three friends remained behind, the air still humming with unresolved questions and the faint promise of greater storms on the horizon.
Iris stared after him, her earlier anger now tangled with something deeper—unease, curiosity, and the growing sense that her father's old companion carried secrets sharp enough to cut through whatever fragile peace still remained in their world.
Uncharted Facility — Near Manhattan
The facility did not exist on any map.
Buried beneath layers of reinforced steel and concrete, it remained silent and isolated, a hidden nerve center where reality was studied, bent, and occasionally broken.
A long corridor fed into a dim, circular chamber. Screens flickered with streams of encrypted data. White-robed figures moved among consoles and holographic displays—some reviewing footage, others murmuring calculations. The air carried the faint ozone tang of active magic and overworked machinery.
One of the figures spoke almost absentmindedly, eyes fixed on a scrolling timeline.
"20th May, 2017…" A pause. "Truly A dark date for us."
Another didn't bother looking up from her screen. "The day the anchor was lifted."
A third voice joined in, quieter and more thoughtful. "And the day Operation Omega Beast… began to evolve."
Silence followed. Not empty—never empty here—but heavy with shared memory and unfinished consequences.
One of the robed figures turned slightly. "It's been almost a year since the Omegas awakened." A pause. "How are you handling them?"
That drew a reaction. A faint chuckle from the far side of the chamber.
"Handling them?" The speaker turned fully now, a slight smirk visible beneath the edge of his hood. "There's no need."
A beat.
"They're handling it for us."
A few heads lifted. Several exchanged glances. Then low, uneasy laughter rippled across the room—not loud, not relaxed.
"Hah…" One of them shook his head slightly. "You sneaky bastard."
Another added, almost admiring, "Letting anomalies clean up your work… Efficient."
But in the back of the chamber, one figure did not laugh. His eyes remained locked on a particular screen where distorted footage played on loop: a shadowy, floating shape hovering in darkness. Not attacking. Not reacting. Simply… present.
He spoke quietly, almost to himself.
"Or maybe…" A pause. "…we're just part of their work."
The laughter faded.
A senior figure at the center of the chamber finally stirred, voice cutting through the lingering hush like a blade.
"Enough chit-chat."
The room fell silent instantly.
"You know what the Elder ordered," the senior continued, tone flat and final. "It is time to begin the next phase. Force Subject."
No one argued. Robes shifted as figures returned to their stations with renewed purpose. Screens brightened. Commands were entered.
The next phase had begun.
The chamber grew still once more, the weight of that possibility pressing down on every white robe like unseen hands. Screens continued to flicker, data scrolling endlessly, while somewhere far above them the city of Manhattan carried on, oblivious to the forces moving beneath its streets.
In the corner, a new feed activated—grainy security footage from a recent skirmish. A young werewolf tearing through defenses. Claws flashing. A robed figure falling, life snuffed out in seconds.
Mark.
The silent observer's fingers tightened around the edge of the console.
They had lost one of their own that night.