The BMW cut through traffic, city lights streaking across the windshield.
For a few seconds, no one spoke.
Then Sam broke.
"So," he said, eyes fixed on the road, voice tight, "Mark was a werewolf this whole time."
Simon nodded from the back seat like he'd just accepted gravity. "Yeah."
Sam let out a short breath. "I knew something was off about him when we played. No normal guy moves like that."
"That's not even the wild part," Simon said.
Sam glanced at the mirror. "Please tell me you're joking."
"Our principal," Simon continued casually, "Mr. Cromvell—werewolf."
The car swerved just a little.
"What?" Sam snapped. "Harvy Cromvell?"
"Surprising, isn't it?"
Sam barked out a laugh that held zero humor. "So that means Peter—" He paused, connecting dots. "That little tank with the baby face? Yeah. That explains everything. I always thought it was steroids or some freak genetics."
Simon leaned forward. "Oh, and Iris too."
Silence.
The engine hummed.
Sam blinked. "I'm sorry—what?"
"She's a werewolf," Simon said. "Not awakened yet, but—"
"Could you two please," Iris cut in sharply, turning around in her seat, eyes flashing, "do this at home?"
Both brothers looked at her.
The car went quiet again.
Meanwhile
The sanctum trembled.
Not violently—not yet—but with the subtle wrongness of something hollowing from the inside. Stone pillars shaped like broken gravestones leaned inward, as if listening. Iron chandeliers hung from nothing, their candles burning with pale-blue fire that gave no warmth. Beneath the cracked marble floor, coffins were embedded vertically, names scratched out, dates unfinished.
A church built to pray.
A graveyard built to feed.
Mark landed hard, claws tearing grooves through the stone as he slid backward. Another wave came immediately—no pause, no warning.
The robed figure didn't lower his arm.
He layered the attack.
Chains of spectral iron burst from the ground, followed by a gravity pulse that folded space inward, followed by a rain of black sigils that detonated midair. There was no rhythm—just pressure. Relentless, stacking, crushing.
Mark moved on instinct.
He rolled, vaulted off a tombstone, ducked beneath a blade of condensed light that screamed as it passed his ear. His shoulder clipped a spell—magic burned through muscle instead of tearing it.
It didn't heal.
Mark noticed that immediately.
His teeth clenched, not from pain—but from understanding that came a second too late.
"Persistent," the robed figure said, voice echoing from everywhere and nowhere. "You survive because you flee."
Mark answered by ripping a marble cross from the floor and hurling it.
It shattered against an invisible barrier.
Another attack followed—this one heavier.
The air thickened.
Not wind.
Not pressure.
Density.
Mark hit the ground on one knee. The sanctum groaned.
And beneath that groan—
A scream.
High. Thin.
A child.
Mark froze.
For half a second, the world narrowed to that sound. Not pain—fear. Not rage—pleading. The kind of scream that didn't know why it hurt, only that it did.
That voice remembered him
Something old.
Something he used to be.
His breath stuttered.
The beast surged inside of Mark.
"Yes," The robed figure whispered. "There you are."
Mark moved before the thought finished forming.
The floor exploded as he transformed—bone stretching, muscle knotting, fur tearing through skin like a second birth. His wolf form rose massive and scarred, eyes burning with something older than instinct—memory.
He didn't charge blindly.
He hunted.
Stone became cover. Coffins became weapons. He tore a slab free, using it as a shield while closing distance, spells detonating against it one after another. He leapt, rebounded off pillars, claws carving paths through sanctified stone.
He landed a hit.
Then another.
The robed figure staggered.
Magic flared defensively—too late.
Mark slammed into him,
Robed figure was lifted by his neck.
jaws snapping shut inches from the robed figure's throat.
For a heartbeat—
He almost bit down.
Mark heard many screams this time.
Some old
Some young
Some men
Some women
Mark growled—low, furious—and threw the robed figure across the sanctum instead.
The impact shattered a mausoleum wall.
Distance.
Deliberate.
The robed figure rose slowly now. Anger bled into its voice.
"You made a mistake."
"No," Mark said, voice layered with the beast. "I made choice to end you differently."
The sanctum shook violently as the robed figure raised both hands.
Every coffin ignited.
Souls tore free—not screaming now, but burning, stripped down to raw fuel. The air howled as a spell began to form—vast, crushing, final.
The weight of it bent the church inward.
Mark felt it.
Felt the drain.
The sanctum was getting lighter.
Weaker.
Hollow.
He smiled.
Then he ran.
Towards the robed figure
He launched himself, every muscle screaming as magic tore into him, wounds opening that didn't close. Pain stuck—lingered. Consequences.
He didn't slow.
The spell reached critical mass.
Mark leapt.
He hit the robed figure mid-cast, claws wrapping around its throat, lifting it clear off the ground. The spell collapsed inward—unfinished, unstable.
Every soul burned out at once.
The sanctum screamed.
The church cracked from altar to roof.
Mark slammed the robed figure into the floor as the world folded in on itself, stone dissolving into ash, gravity tearing loose.
As everything fell—
Mark heard it again.
Not a scream this time.
A release.
Then nothing.
When Mark hit the ground outside, the night air cut sharp and real. The sanctum was gone—no crater, no ruin. Just empty land where something monstrous had fed.
Mark didn't stand immediately.
Magic wounds burned in his flesh, stubborn and slow.
They would scar.
He accepted that.
Some victories were supposed to leave marks.
Clara stepped a few meters away from the others, her boots crunching softly against gravel. The night air was cold, damp with the smell of rust and old concrete.
She pulled out her phone.
No hesitation. No theatrics.
Just urgency.
The screen lit up as she dialed a number that wasn't saved under a name—only a symbol made of letters and numbers that meant nothing to anyone else.
The call connected after one ring.
"It's me," Clara said quietly.
She leaned against the wall, eyes scanning the dark end of the street.
"I found them."
A pause. Static breathed on the other end.
"No, not traces. Active. Organized. More than three—maybe six or seven."
She swallowed.
"Yes. Human victims. Recent. The markings match."
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
"They're preparing something big. Not a small ritual. Not a test."
Another pause.
Her voice dropped lower.
"A summoning."
She listened, jaw set.
"I believe it's a demon summoning the scale is wrong.
They're feeding it with chaos energy and souls. Its pretty low amount for them to fully call out a demon on our plane of existence."
She glanced back at Sam, Iris, and Simon in the distance—then turned away again.
"I need backup. Real backup.
Send anyone nearby who's clean and quiet."
The voice on the other end said something that made her brow crease.
"No," Clara replied firmly.
"I'm not engaging. I'm observing. If I move too early, they'll scatter."
Another beat.
"Location is underground—old stormwater tunnels near the industrial edge.
I'll drop coordinates off-call."
Silence.
The phone screen went dark.
For a moment, Clara just stood there, staring at her reflection in the black glass.
Then she turned back toward the others.
Her expression was calm—but the tension in her shoulders said everything.
"We don't have much time," she said.
And for the first time, she didn't sound like someone in control—
She sounded like someone trying to stay ahead of disaster.