Episode 108 Old Man
The doors opened.
One by one.
Metal screeched—
let ong and harsh.
Locks gave way like old bones cracking apart.
And then—
they came out.
At first, slow.
Hesitant.
With the awkwardness of creatures that no longer trusted freedom.
Then more followed.
One after another.
Dragging their feet,
breathing like it hurt to exist.
The air outside the cells wasn't cleaner—
but it was different.
It had something they'd forgotten it could have.
Space.
Titus was already inside one of the cells.
The old man.
Collapsed on the ground.
Skin stretched thin over bone.
White hair tangled with filth.
His beard long, heavy, matted.
His body… barely alive.
But still breathing.
Barely.
Titus knelt down.
Lifted him carefully,
as if he might shatter at a touch.
He raised him effortlessly.
But there was something else in that motion.
Something no one expected from him.
Respect.
When he stepped out of the cell with the old man in his arms—
everything stopped.
The others saw him.
No one spoke.
For a moment they didn't understand.
Then they did.
And that changed everything.
They surrounded him.
Slowly.
Silently.
Massive men,
some well over eight feet tall,
their strength now reduced to torn, trembling flesh.
Women.
Some wolves.
Others fox‑blooded.
Their eyes sharp, weary, but alert—
eyes that had already seen too much,
yet still refused to close.
And others came too.
Different clans.
Different forms.
All in the same condition.
Destroyed.
Bent under violence.
Worn thin by years.
Their skin was pale—
not from color,
but from a life without sun.
Buried down here.
Forgotten.
Their bodies spoke.
And what they said was horror.
Bruises.
Black.
Yellow.
Split skin.
Scars crossing backs, chests, legs.
Old ones.
New ones.
Wounds that never really healed.
Some could barely stand.
Their legs shook.
Their feet…
cracked.
Burned.
Infected.
They had been forced to walk.
To endure.
To keep living just enough not to die.
And all of them—
every single one—
bore the mark.
Branded into their flesh.
On their necks.
Their arms.
A symbol.
Simple.
Cruel.
Not decorative.
A mark of ownership.
Of punishment.
Of condemnation.
A reminder of what they were down here.
Slaves.
Disposable.
Flesh waiting for its turn.
To die.
Or worse.
Silence.
Absolute.
Only ragged breaths.
And the sound of eyes turning toward him.
They looked at Titus.
At the old man in his arms.
And something began to move inside them.
Those still in beast form—
gave in.
Their bodies trembled.
Bones reshaped with wet, cracking sounds.
Skin tightened.
They changed back.
To human.
The others—
those who weren't full lycanthropes,
those who turned directly into wolves—
changed too.
Not halfway.
Not into beasts.
Straight to human.
As if something was calling them.
As if something made them remember what they were.
And now—
all of them—
stood before him.
Human.
Damaged.
Broken.
But present.
Looking at him.
First came awe.
Then disbelief.
Then something deeper.
More dangerous.
Hope.
They could hardly believe what they were seeing.
A king—
carrying one of them in his arms.
Not dragging him.
Not punishing him.
Not ignoring him.
Carrying him.
As if he mattered.
As if he still meant something.
As if he wasn't yet lost.
And in that instant—
without words,
without orders,
without promises—
something was born.
It wasn't loyalty.
Not yet.
But it was close.
Very close.
Titus didn't look away from the group.
The old man was still in his arms.
"Do you have anywhere to put them?"
Pause.
"Beds. Food. Medical care."
The question landed heavy.
The manager hesitated.
"No, my lord."
Silence.
"We only have one infirmary."
She lowered her gaze a little.
"For isolated cases."
Pause.
"Two… maybe three people. Nothing more."
Titus said nothing.
"And right now it's occupied."
The air tightened again.
"By the four guards."
Silence.
No one moved.
No one breathed normally.
And for the first time—
the reality of this place was clear.
It wasn't a place to heal.
It was a place to endure.
And to die.
Titus didn't move.
The old man stayed in his arms.
He turned his head slightly.
"Duchess."
Pause.
"Do you have somewhere?"
Silence.
"A warehouse. Something empty. I don't care if it's old."
He looked at her.
"I'll fix it."
One step.
"But I need to get them out of here."
His voice didn't shake.
But the weight was there.
"I need food.
"A place where they can cook.
"Doctors.
"Medicine.
"Beds.
"Mattresses.
"Clothes."
Pause.
Lower.
"Everything."
Silence fell.
Titus lowered his head.
"Please."
A pause.
"Help me."
He drew a breath.
"I'll pay you back. Every coin."
The duchess didn't answer right away.
She just looked at him.
Steady.
Cold.
Calculating.
"Titus."
Her voice was calm.
"Raise your head."
Silence.
"Always show pride."
Titus didn't obey.
"Pride won't get anything done."
Pause.
Harder.
"People are going to die."
Silence.
The duchess watched him a moment longer.
Then—
"Not always."
Pause.
"Don't worry."
Her tone didn't change.
"I'll handle it."
She took out her phone.
Dialed.
Spoke little.
Precise.
Another call.
Then another.
Never raising her voice.
Never losing control.
Minutes later—
she put the phone away.
"It's done."
Titus looked up.
"Buses are on their way.
"For all of them.
"Cleaning crews are already moving.
"The warehouse will be ready in under an hour."
Pause.
"Doctors will come.
"Medicine.
"Kitchens.
"Staff.
"And guards."
A brief pause.
"No one will touch them."
Silence.
Titus lowered his head again.
Deeper.
"Thank you."
The duchess looked at him.
No visible emotion.
"You're welcome, my lord."
Movement began.
Doors opening.
Footsteps.
Voices.
People coming in.
Doctors.
Staff.
Hands ready to help.
The place started to change.
Slowly… but for real.
And then—
they appeared.
Four figures.
Black suits.
White shirts.
Black ties.
Dark glasses.
Huge bodies.
They didn't look like men.
They looked like walls.
They moved fast.
Straight toward Titus.
He reacted instantly.
Set himself on guard.
The old man still in his arms.
For a second—
stretched and tense—
and then—
all four dropped to their knees.
At the same time.
"My lord…"
Pause.
"Thank you for saving us."
Silence.
Titus looked at them.
And understood.
The guards.
The same ones.
He crouched down.
Kept the old man steady with one arm.
With the other—
he grabbed one of them by the shoulder.
Forced him to stand.
"Get up."
The others hesitated.
"All four of you."
His voice didn't rise.
It didn't need to.
"Stand up."
They got to their feet.
Steady.
But different.
They were no longer the same men he'd seen hanging from chains.
"From this day on…"
Pause.
"you belong to me."
Silence.
"You'll be part of my clan."
His eyes locked onto them.
"My knights."
The air shifted.
Heavier.
Clearer.
The duchess watched him.
Without interrupting.
Measuring every move.
Titus turned his head slightly.
"Duchess."
Pause.
"Make the arrangements."
His tone hardened.
"I want the alphas of your clan to release them."
Silence.
"I need to form a new pact with them."
He looked back at the four men.
"You'll be my front line."
Pause.
"And my last defense."
Lower.
"My right hands."
The four of them bowed their heads.
"Thank you, my lord."
Titus held their gaze for another second.
"Your names."
The first one spoke.
"Jean Delacroix."
The second.
"Marc Boudreaux."
The third.
"Étienne Thibodeaux."
The fourth.
"Lucien D'Arbonne."
Pause.
"We're from the same clan, my lord."
"Louisiana."
Silence.
Titus nodded.
"Good."
A brief pause.
"Now then…"
His gaze hardened even more.
"Prove it."
El movimiento comenzó.
Órdenes claras.
Rápidas.
Sin gritos.
Solo autoridad.
Los liberados empezaron a subir a los vehículos.
Uno a uno.
Ayudados.
Sostenidos por brazos más firmes que los suyos.
Cargados cuando las piernas ya no respondían.
Los cuatro caballeros se quedaron al final.
Firmes.
En formación.
Titus los miró.
—Se quedan con ellos.
Pausa.
—Nadie los toca.
Silencio.
—Los cuidan.
—Sí, mi señor.
—Hasta que estén listos.
Otra pausa.
—Después vuelven a mí.
Inclinaron la cabeza.
Sin dudar.
Sin preguntas.
Los últimos subieron.
Las puertas se cerraron.
Los motores arrancaron.
Y se fueron.
El lugar quedó vacío.
Por primera vez—
sin gritos.
Sin cadenas.
Solo paredes.
Y aire.
Titus se giró.
La duquesa ya estaba a su lado.
No dijo nada.
No hizo falta.
Subieron.
Pasillos.
Escaleras.
Con cada tramo, el aire cambiaba.
Menos humedad.
Más luz.
Hasta que el mundo de arriba regresó.
El restaurante.
Limpio.
Cálido.
Perfecto.
Como si nada hubiera pasado bajo sus pies.
Los estaban esperando.
Privado cerrado.
Discreto.
Al entrar—
los hombres se pusieron de pie.
Todos al mismo tiempo.
Uno avanzó.
Se inclinó.
—Mi señor.
Los demás repitieron el gesto.
Preciso.
Medido.
Profesional.
—Soy el administrador asignado a sus activos —dijo el primero.
Pausa.
—Todo está listo.
Otro dio un paso leve.
—Representación legal.
Nada más.
Sin adornos.
Sin discursos.
El administrador abrió la carpeta.
—Transferencia de propiedad.
Pausa.
—Trescientas tiendas.
Deslizó los documentos hacia él.
—Listo para firma.
Titus no dudó.
Tomó la pluma.
Firmó.
Página tras página.
Sin leer en detalle.
Sin titubear.
Cada firma cerraba algo.
Cada trazo lo ataba más.
Cuando terminó—
dejó la pluma sobre la mesa.
El sonido fue seco.
Final.
—A partir de este momento—
dijo el administrador—
—usted es el propietario.
Pausa.
—De una línea exclusiva.
—Producción limitada.
—Acceso restringido.
Silencio.
—Cada pieza…
Pausa.
—desde cincuenta mil dólares.
Nada masivo.
Nada común.
Solo élite.
Solo poder.
La duquesa observaba.
En silencio.
Como si todo esto—
ya hubiera estado decidido
mucho antes de que él bajara a las celdas.
Titus no reaccionó.
No lo necesitaba.
Porque no era el dinero.
Era control.