The safehouse door slid shut behind Alan, cutting off Thorne's suffocating gaze, but sealing him firmly within a sterile, high-tech cage. The room was starkly functional: a single bed with grey sheets, a built-in closet, a small desk and chair, a door to an equally minimalist bathroom. The walls were smooth silver-grey composite. No decorations. Only a faint red LED light from a pinhole camera in the ceiling corner watched like an unblinking, cold eye.
Oppressive. Suffocating.
The terror for Grandfather's uncertain fate coiled around Alan's heart like icy vines, each beat sending sharp pain. Thorne's seemingly benign yet ironclad "offer" hung over him like a sword. And the attackers… Ouroboros… They had the scroll, had hurt Grandfather, and wouldn't stop. He was trapped here, powerless, a dangerous object awaiting appraisal.
Time lost meaning. Alan hunched in the cold chair, head buried in his arms, trying to block everything out. The room's constant soft light and low hum of air filtration, meant to be calming, amplified his isolation and fear. He couldn't sleep, afraid of seeing Grandfather fall. He couldn't think of the future, shrouded in impenetrable mist and lurking danger.
An indeterminate time later—hours? minutes?—the door slid open silently. Alan jerked his head up, heart seizing.
It wasn't Lena. A boy who looked a year or two younger stood there. Messy, brown hair streaked with electric blue stuck out in all directions. A smattering of acne dotted his face beneath a pair of bulky smart glasses. Behind the lenses, light brown eyes sparkled with intense curiosity and excitement. He wore a baggy T-shirt featuring a pixelated unicorn and cargo pants, scuffed sneakers completing the look, jarringly out of place in the sleek safehouse. He clutched a tablet, fingers dancing across its surface.
"Hey! You're the 'walking EMP'? The 'Anima Hoover'? The 'Silence Field Generator'? Codename's pending, but it's you!" The boy's voice was fast, slightly raspy from adolescence. He bounded into the room, eyes behind the glasses devouring Alan like a fascinating specimen. "Simon Clarke! Tech support and intel wrangler! Call me Simon! Wow, your energy sig is wild! Doesn't match anything in the database! That instantaneous nullification… is it active or passive? Big mana drain? Cooldown timer?…" Simon's rapid-fire questions bombarded Alan.
Human EMP? Silence Field? The bizarre terms confused and unsettled him. Simon's fascination felt purely technical, devoid of Lena's cold assessment or Thorne's deep pressure, but the naked curiosity also made him feel like a lab rat.
"I… I don't know what you're talking about…" Alan shrank back, voice hoarse.
"Don't be shy!" Simon plopped into a chair backwards, resting his chin on the backrest, shoving the tablet almost into Alan's face. The screen showed complex waveforms – Alan's energy signatures from the art centre and the herb shop. "Look here! Peak frequency, decay curve, this unique 'neutralization' waveform residue… It's unique! I built a preliminary model, but variables are insane! Thorne wants me to kit you out with an upgraded monitor cuff. Records vitals and Anima flux in real-time, plus dampens leakage so you don't fry the safehouse circuits…" He waved a black wristband that looked like a fitness tracker but boasted far more complex internals.
"Monitor?" Alan's heart sank, resistance flaring.
"Relax! Baseline stuff! Fancier than a hospital EKG, maybe!" Simon waved dismissively, though his eyes remained avidly curious. "Protective functions, mostly! Seriously! Need anything? Game console? VR headset? Got the latest! Or… wanna see something? I can pull feeds from most non-secure public cams! London Eye? Big Ben? Live stream!" He pitched his 'services' enthusiastically, clearly angling for easier access to his unique research subject.
Just then, a toneless electronic voice echoed through the safehouse PA: "Training Sector, anomalous energy spike detected. Probationary Operative Fenrir Silvermane, cease unauthorized activity immediately and report to Silence Chamber A3. Repeat, Fenrir Silvermane, cease immediately."
"Tch. The fuzzy wrecking ball's at it again," Simon muttered under his breath, his gaze still fixed on Alan. "Ignore him. So? You didn't answer…"
Before Simon could finish, a deep, guttural roar, distinctly bestial, rumbled from deeper within the corridor, followed by a heavy CRUNCH of metal impacting something solid! The floor vibrated faintly.
Alan flinched. Simon just rolled his eyes. "Here we go. Thrice a week, minimum."
As if summoned, heavy, aggressive footsteps pounded down the hall, stopping right outside Alan's doorway. A large figure blocked the light.
He appeared around twenty, nearly six and a half feet tall, wearing a specially tailored black tank top bearing a silver crescent moon insignia and durable pants. Exposed arms were corded with muscle like forged steel. His hair was a wild mane of deep grey shot through with silver. His features were ruggedly handsome – strong jaw, high cheekbones – currently twisted in fury. But his eyes were the most arresting – in the corridor's dim light, they glowed with an inhuman, molten amber hue, slitted pupils like a predator's! Raw, barely contained fury and wildness burned within them.
An overwhelming scent hit Alan – sweat, metal, and something primal, feral. Instinctive dread washed over him, the feeling of being sized up by a dangerous beast.
"Shut your trap, Clarke!" Fenrir's voice was a low growl, thick with a Nordic accent, each word rumbling like distant thunder. His amber slitted eyes flicked dismissively to Simon, then locked onto Alan in the chair. The gaze was razor-sharp, filled with blatant assessment, scorn, and deep-seated, instinctive hostility.
"This scrawny whelp is the 'incident source'?" Fenrir scoffed, the derision palpable. "Couldn't crush a field mouse. Worth the White Tower's time caging him?" He took a step forward, his imposing frame making the small room feel claustrophobic. Alan felt plunged into an ice bath, cold sweat soaking his back. The raw, physical power emanating from Fenrir was unmistakably non-human. Werewolf. Thorne's "Silver Moon Pact exchange student" suddenly made terrifying sense.
"Hey! Furball! Easy! Thorne says he's an important… uh… subject!" Simon tried to interpose himself, his voice faltering under Fenrir's glare.
"Subject? Waste of space!" Fenrir took another step, his hot, animalistic breath washing over Alan's face. His slitted pupils narrowed, nostrils flaring as if scenting the air. "Smells… weak. And… like city gutter rot. Tch!" His disgust was naked, his look one of utter contempt. "Listen, pup," he loomed over the pale Alan, voice thick with threat. "Stay clear of me. Don't cause trouble. And if I catch even a whiff of you near those coffin-crawling Leeches…" He didn't finish, merely bared his teeth in a snarl, revealing unnaturally sharp incisors. The message was clear.
Alan's heart hammered, fear and humiliated anger warring within him. He wanted to retort, to stand, but Fenrir's sheer feral presence froze him. Then—
"Fenrir Silvermane!" A voice like cracking ice cut through the tension.
Lena White stood in the doorway, posture ramrod straight, uniform impeccable. Her ice-blue eyes were glacial, fixed on the towering werewolf. "Silence Chamber A3. Now. That's an order, not a suggestion." Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried absolute authority and cold pressure, instantly countering Fenrir's violent aura.
Fenrir's amber pupils contracted violently. A low, frustrated growl rumbled in his chest, the sound of a predator forcibly restrained. He shot Alan one last, venomous glare that promised unfinished business, then gave a heavy, resentful grunt. Shoulders hunched with suppressed rage, he turned and stomped down the corridor after Lena. The heavy footsteps and frustrated snarls faded.
The room held only a shaken Alan and a relieved Simon.
"Whew… Close one," Simon exhaled dramatically. "Don't mind him. Fenrir's all muscle, no brain. Grumpy with everyone, especially newbies and… uh… vampires. He's here from the Silver Moon Pact to 'learn', basically means he's a pain. But Lena can handle him." He leaned closer to Alan, conspiratorially. "Heard when he first got here, he mouthed off to Lena. She tied him up in rune-traps in the training room, zapped him till he howled. Calmed him down for days!"
Alan managed a weak, unconvincing smile. Fenrir's hostility was too raw, too violent. In this safehouse, he wasn't just a monitored "object"; he was an unwanted "outsider".
Later that evening, the door slid open again. Lena entered carrying a metal tray with simple food and water. She placed it on the desk with efficient movements.
"Your dinner." Her voice remained cool. Her ice-blue gaze swept over Alan's pale, drawn face and the barely touched lunch Simon had brought earlier. A faint frown might have touched her brow. "Mr. Shaw's condition is unchanged. Still comatose. The medical team is maintaining support." She volunteered the information about Grandfather, brief but a sliver of light in Alan's darkness.
Alan looked up sharply, a flicker of hope in his eyes. "Thank you… Agent White."
Lena gave a curt nod. She turned to leave but paused at the threshold, back to Alan. Her voice seemed marginally lower, softer. "Fenrir… Ignore his words. The Silver Moon Pact and the Crimson Conclave are ancient enemies. He harbors hostility towards all non-wolves… especially those perceived as connected to vampires." She paused, then added, "Here, follow the rules, stay quiet, and no harm will come to you."
Without waiting for a response, she was gone.
Alan looked at the simple food, then at the empty doorway. Lena's demeanor was still cool, professionally distant. Yet those last words, especially the news about Grandfather and the implied "protection," held a nuance he couldn't quite decipher. Sympathy? Or merely duty-bound reassurance?
His first day in the safehouse passed in a haze of tension, wariness, rejection, and a sliver of complex, ambiguous care. Alan picked at the food, tasting nothing. He lay on the bed, staring at the faint red LED on the ceiling. It felt like a brand, seared onto his retinas and his fate. The simulated light outside the window dimmed; the safehouse interior shifted to soft night mode. But Alan knew the darkness outside was fake. The real darkness filled his heart and shrouded his unconscious grandfather.
He curled into a tight ball on the cold bed. Grandfather… please wake up… The silent prayer was a desperate ache. Tears soaked silently into the pillow. The safehouse night was terrifyingly silent, broken only by his own ragged breathing and the faint, almost inaudible tread of patrols in the corridor beyond, a constant reminder that safety here was an illusion.