Saturday night had arrived before Adam even realized the week had passed. The days had blurred together, a dizzying loop of classes, quick meals, and relentless basketball drills. Every spare moment, every ounce of focus, had been poured into training for this one game. Now, as the sun set over the campus, the entire school seemed to hum with anticipation.
The parking lot outside the main gym looked like the forecourt of some luxury dealership, sleek black sedans, glossy SUVs, and imported sports cars lined the front, their polished surfaces reflecting the floodlights. Parents in coats and formalwear crossed the lot, their shoes tapping crisply against the pavement as they spoke in low, animated voices.
Inside, the air was electric. The heavy scent of polished wood floors mixed with the faint tang of popcorn from the concession stand. The bleachers were already overflowing with students, parents, and staff, all chattering in a rising buzz that felt like the prelude to a storm.
Adam walked beside Bryce through the crowd, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his warm-up jacket. Bryce had that easygoing swagger he always carried, but even he kept glancing at Adam, sensing the weight in his friend's silence.
"You're doing that thing again," Bryce muttered, nudging him with an elbow.
"What thing?"
"The 'I'm fine but I'm actually dying inside' thing." Bryce's tone was light, but his eyes searched Adam's face.
Adam exhaled, a slow cloud of breath in the cool evening air as they approached the player's entrance. "My dad's not coming. Work." He kept his voice flat, almost casual, as if saying it like that would make it sting less.
Bryce's brow furrowed. "Damn, man. I'm sorry."
Adam gave a small shrug, forcing a smile. "It's fine, i just hope he's okay... Besides, one less distraction, right?" He didn't sound convinced, but he kept walking.
They stepped into the gym together. The roar of voices swelled, bouncing off the high rafters. Bright overhead lights poured down, making the polished court gleam like a stage.
Coach Barlow spotted Adam instantly, frowning. "You're late. Go get changed. Now!"
"Yes, Coach."
Adam jogged toward the locker room, the sound of the crowd muffled as the door shut behind him. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting the room in pale light. He tore off his jacket, changed quickly, and leaned over the sink, splashing cold water onto his face. Droplets ran down his cheeks and dripped onto the counter as he gripped the edges, staring at his reflection.
This is it.
When he stepped back into the gym, the cheerleaders were mid-routine, pom-poms flashing under the lights. Across the court, the visiting team, the Green Timberjacks were warming up. They were tall, lean, and every movement screamed precision. Layup drills, fluid passes, clean jumpers. Their rhythm was almost hypnotic.
Adam's stomach tightened when his gaze caught on three unfamiliar men sitting in the front row of the bleachers. They weren't parents. Their posture, their clipboards, the way their eyes swept over the players like scanners. They had to be college scouts.
Great. No pressure.
The whistle blew, and the Wolves huddled. Coach Ramirez's voice cut through the noise. "Stick to the plan. Don't get caught up in their speed, force them into bad shots. We control the tempo." His eyes flicked to Adam. "You're starting bench. Third or fourth quarter rotation. Stay ready."
Adam nodded, taking his seat with the other subs.
The starting five stepped onto the court, and the game exploded into motion.
From the very first possession, Adam could tell: the Timberjacks were good. Not just skilled, they moved like they'd been playing together for years. Fast breaks that were over before you could blink. Crisp passes that cut through the Wolves' defense. Their center towered over most of the Wolves' roster.
Midway through the first quarter, the Wolves' small forward, Tom Cunningham, was putting on a show; breaking ankles, faking defenders, dropping shots like he'd been born for it. But then it happened. Tom made a powerful drive to the basket, going for a layup but was met with a brutal foul midair. He landed hard, the fall unforgiving. The whistle blew, the crowd gasped, and Tom grimaced as he clutched his leg.
Coach looked down the bench. "Adam, you're in."
'Already?' Adam's heart skipped. He was supposed to have until the fourth quarter to get his head in the game, but there was no time to think about it.
The moment his shoes hit the court; he could feel it, the distrust. His teammates barely glanced at him, and when they had the ball, they weren't passing his way. Adam swallowed his frustration. Arguing wouldn't help. Instead, he threw himself into defense, shadowing his man, fighting for rebounds, setting hard screens and giving his all in defense.
Then came the moment. A bad pass from the Timberjacks went out of bounds, and Adam dove for it, saving it from rolling away. But when he looked up, every teammate was covered.
No one to pass to.
One-on-one.
He widened his stance, dribbling low. The first defender lunged, Adam's crossover was sharp, his footwork fast. The Timberjack staggered, slipping just enough for Adam to cut past him. Two more closed in, but Adam spun between them, the world narrowing to the lane ahead.
He went up for the layup, spinning 180 degrees midair. The ball kissed the glass before dropping it clean through.
The gym erupted as Adam landed, adrenaline blazing through his veins. Hands slapped his back, teammates pulled him up. For a split second, he glanced toward the scouts. Their expressions barely shifted, but there was something, a flicker of approval before their faces reset.
From that moment, everything changed. His teammates started feeding him the ball. Adam drove, shot, hustled for loose balls. He wasn't unstoppable, the Timberjacks still blocked him, still made him fight for every point, but he was in the game now.
By the fourth quarter, the score was tied. The Wolves' bench was on their feet, the crowd deafening.
Then, with four seconds left, a Timberjack free throw dropped cleanly, putting them ahead by two.
The Wolves had one last possession.
The ball went to their point guard, and he was immediately tackled. The Timberjacks stole the ball, their forward breaking away for a dunk. But out of nowhere, the Wolves' center swatted it away, the ball bouncing right into Adam's hands.
Three defenders closed in.
His ankle throbbed, his muscles screamed. He spun midair, losing one defender, landing hard on his bad foot. Pain shot up his leg, but he pushed through, stepping back just enough to clear space.
Three seconds.
He rose, the ball leaving his fingertips as the buzzer blared.
For a heartbeat, the world held its breath. The ball arced perfectly, kissed the rim... and bounced away.
The Timberjacks roared in victory.
Adam dropped to his knees. His chest heaved, and a hot burn stung his eyes. When they needed me most… I missed.
Then, hands gripped his shoulders, lifting him to his feet. Teammates beaming, clapping him on the back. The coach leaned in, voice steady and proud: "Hell of a game, son."
Adam forced a smile. The crowd was cheering for him, for him. Even in defeat.
But as the Timberjacks celebrated, he saw it. The scouts were focused on them… all except one, who lingered a few seconds longer on Adam before finally turning away.
And in that moment, despite the noise, despite the praise, Adam couldn't stop the quiet ache in his chest.
'Would Dad have been proud?'
***
The moon was only a sliver in the night sky, casting a faint silver sheen over the torn landscape. The air was thick with the scent of cordite, churned earth, and something far fouler, the iron tang of blood and the sour reek of the dhampyrs.
Austin stood behind a makeshift barricade of sandbags and torn steel plating;haat his gloved fingers wrapped tightly around the grip of his rifle. The metal was warm from constant firing. Sweat slicked the back of his neck despite the biting cold, and every few seconds, his ears rang from the overlapping cracks of gunfire.
This was the fourth defensive rank. He had arranged them like concentric circles of desperation, each line meant to stall, absorb, and bleed the enemy dry before they could reach Moonstone. But the truth was, the dhampyrs weren't just pushing forward; they were tearing through the defenses like wild dogs through paper.
"Positions! Hold the line!" Austin's voice roared over the comms, half lost in the staccato symphony of automatic fire.
Somewhere in the darkness ahead, the third rank had just crumbled. The radio crackled with panicked voices, orders half-finished, screams cut short, and then only static.
"Third rank is gone! They're falling back!" someone yelled from the barricade to Austin's right.
"Then get ready," Austin growled, shouldering his rifle. "This is where we make them pay for every inch."
A sudden thundering of boots and diesel engines shook the earth as retreating soldiers and battered humvees broke into view, headlights flashing erratically. Behind them, the shapes emerged: twenty, thirty, forty dhampyrs, their pale forms darting in and out of shadows, their eyes glinting like shards of ice.
"Contact front!"
The snipers perched in the skeletal remains of nearby buildings opened up, their rifles coughing in rhythmic, deadly whispers. The first wave of dhampyrs dropped in jerking silhouettes, but the others barely slowed, bounding forward on all fours before springing upright in an inhuman sprint.
Austin exhaled, steadying his sights on the closest target, a lean, white-haired creature sprinting for the barricade. Three rounds caught it in the chest, the last exploding through the back of its skull. It tumbled forward in a heap, but another took its place instantly.
Men screamed. Someone to Austin's left went down hard, a dhampyr on top of him, teeth flashing. Austin swung his rifle and fired without hesitation, the rounds punching into the attacker's spine until it slumped off the dying soldier.
"Medic!"
But no one came. The medic was already busy trying to clamp a man's shredded leg further down the line.
A figure dropped from above, one of the dhampyrs had scaled the half-collapsed building and leapt straight into the fourth rank. It tore through two men before Austin got to it, jamming the muzzle of his rifle under its chin and pulling the trigger. The creature's head snapped back, black ichor spraying over his vest.
He could feel the pressure mounting. Every time they dropped one, two more seemed to take its place. His ammo counter blinked angrily on the rifle's display.
"Incoming from the right flank!" someone bellowed.
Austin turned just in time to see a squadmate get dragged over the sandbags, screaming as clawed hands shredded into him. Austin vaulted the barrier, slamming into the dhampyr and unloading the rest of his magazine into its torso.
The air was alive with chaos, screams, gunfire, the whine of engines trying to reverse out of the kill zone. Somewhere, a rocket-propelled grenade streaked overhead and detonated against a building, showering them in glass and stone.
Then it happened.
Austin broke from cover to pull a wounded man toward safety, but halfway there, he caught sight of movement to his left, a dhampyr, faster than thought, closing the gap with predatory precision. He turned his rifle toward it, but his empty chamber clicked uselessly.
Time slowed. He could see the creature's mouth open, rows of teeth slick with blood. Could see its claws extending, ready to tear him apart. And in that moment, with death rushing for him, Austin realized something, he didn't want to die here. Not like this. Not in the dirt, another nameless casualty.
A surge of raw instinct overrode every other thought. He dropped the wounded man, spun, and sprinted toward the nearest Humvee. Behind him, someone screamed his name. The sound was cut short by a wet, crunching noise.
He dove into the passenger seat as the driver slammed the gas, the vehicle lurching backward toward the fifth and final rank. Austin's breath came in ragged gulps. He could feel the judgment in his own chest, a hot, searing shame.
He grabbed the radio, forcing the tremor out of his voice.
"Fifth rank, this is Austin. Get ready. You've got a full breach incoming. They're right behind us."
The humvee roared down the ruined street, bouncing over debris. In the rearview mirror, Austin could see shadows keeping pace, flickering in and out of the dark.
He had fought as long as he could. He had killed more of them than he could count. And still, it hadn't been enough.
He leaned back in the seat, tasting blood from a split lip, and muttered under his breath, words no soldier wanted to say.
"…We can't contain this."
And for the first time in a long time, Austin felt less like a warrior… and more like a man running from a storm he couldn't stop.
Meanwhile, the night outside the hunters' cave was colder than the air within. John stood near the jagged rock face, the red glow of his cigarette briefly lighting his weathered features. He drew in a slow drag, exhaling into the wind, letting it carry the smoke into the darkness. His muscles ached from hauling crate after crate of supplies into the depths of the hideout, ammo, rations, weapons. The kind of load that could make or break a siege.
Behind him, deeper in the cave, Cassius Vane sat hunched over a spread of maps and notes, his voice low as he spoke into a private line. His attention was fixed, sharp, surgical. Everything about him said plans within plans.
John rubbed his shoulder and stared up at the night sky, but then,
The wind shifted.
It wasn't much, just a sudden gust rolling down from the hills. But it carried something that froze him mid-breath. A smell. Thick, coppery. Familiar in the worst way.
His eyes narrowed. He'd smelled it before, right before a feeding frenzy.
From the edge of the treeline, a figure burst into view, a young footsoldier, face pale with panic, boots slipping in the loose dirt. "They're coming! Dhampyrs!" he yelled, voice cracking.
John's cigarette hit the ground, forgotten. He didn't even stamp it out. His instincts flared like a siren. Without thinking, he spun on his heel and sprinted for the cave entrance, his boots pounding the stone.
Somewhere in the distance, that sound came, high-pitched, inhuman, splitting the night. The scream of a dhampyr, and then another, and another, overlapping into a chorus of hunger.
John snatched his radio from his vest, his voice clipped and urgent.
"Cassius, incoming! Light the roof charges, now!"
Inside, Cassius didn't even look up from the map table. He flicked a switch on the detonator beside him, his movements calm, deliberate, as though he'd been waiting for this moment all night.
By the time John crossed the threshold of the cave, the first shadow leapt into view behind him, a pale, long-limbed shape charging at unnatural speed.
The explosives went off.
The night lit up in a blinding flash as the charges ripped through the roof of the cave entrance. Rock and dirt came crashing down in a deafening roar, the blast wave knocking John forward onto his knees.
The world became a choking haze of dust and pulverized stone. When his vision cleared, the entrance was gone, buried under tons of jagged rock. Several dhampyrs had been too close, their bodies torn apart by the falling debris.
Only one had slipped through before the collapse.
It lunged, shrieking, claws wide, only to be cut down in a spray of black ichor as half a dozen hunters opened fire from inside the cave. The creature twitched once and went still.
John stayed on one knee, his chest heaving. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. Slowly, Cassius Vane emerged from the shadows, brushing dust from his tailored coat. He walked over, nonchalant, and offered John a hand.
John took it, hauling himself upright.
Cassius' tone was casual, almost conversational. "Looks like they're heading for Moonstone," he said. "Could be a feeding spree."
John's brow furrowed. "So… we going after them?"
Cassius' smirk was cold, humorless. "No. Our focus stays where it belongs, the Gryphon family. Let Moonstone burn if it must."
John stared at him for a moment, incredulous. He wanted to argue, to point out how insane that sounded, but he knew better than to lock horns with Cassius. The man's plans never bent for anyone.
Wordlessly, John pulled out his phone. His fingers moved fast, tapping out a message to an old contact, Joe Hawkings.
'Dhampyrs heading to Moonstone. Big swarm. Be ready.'
He hit send, slid the phone back into his pocket, and glanced toward the buried entrance. The distant, muffled screams outside were already fading into silence. But John knew that silence didn't mean safety. It meant they were just moving on… to their next kill.