The night had been long. Too long.
Detective Joe Hawkings sat hunched over the papers scattered across his desk, the overhead lamp bleaching his office in a harsh yellow cone. His tie hung loose around his neck, his shirt wrinkled and sticking faintly from the sheen of sweat built over hours of stale coffee and stubborn staring at files that refused to give up their secrets.
For the fifth time in the last hour, he rubbed his tired eyes with the heel of his hand, the stubble along his jaw scraping against his palm. He had been trying to stitch together a connection between the Gryphon family and the latest killing. The bloodstains had whispered possibility, the timing suggested motive, but without the DNA results, it was nothing more than guesswork. Smoke and shadows.
His gaze shifted to the clock on the wall. It was creeping toward midnight. His eyes felt gritty, his body heavy. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to call it a night.
With a weary groan, Hawkings reached for his phone, flicking it out of "Do Not Disturb" mode. The device immediately came alive in his hand, buzzing with pent-up notifications. He blinked, his sluggish brain trying to catch up with the sudden flood of messages.
Four missed calls from his wife.
Seven text messages.
A few more from colleagues and acquaintances.
He swiped through them quickly, lips parting in a faint sigh as he skimmed his wife's messages first.
Since I couldn't reach you, I left food for you in the microwave. Don't stay too late. I'm going to bed. Love you.
Guilt tugged at him. He could practically see her asleep now, curled up under the blankets, half expecting him to creep into bed sometime before dawn. She was used to this life. The long hours. The waiting. But she still tried. Still left him dinner.
He scrolled past, half smiling at the warmth of it, until his thumb froze mid-swipe.
One message stood out. Short. Abrupt. Not like the others.
It was from John.
John, the kind of old friend you never really lost, no matter how much time or distance tried to pull you apart. A man who didn't waste words, not unless they mattered.
The text read:
Dhampyrs heading to Moonstone. Big swarm. Be ready.
Hawkings' breath hitched. His chest tightened. For a second, the tired haze vanished, replaced with a cold clarity.
Before he could process further, the door creaked open. A woman's voice cut through the stillness.
"Detective Hawkings?"
He turned sharply. One of his junior colleagues, a young officer with her dark hair pulled back into a bun, stood in the doorway. Her face was tense, eyes darting as though she wasn't sure whether to enter or run.
"There's… there's a situation."
The weariness drained from Hawkings' body, replaced by a gnawing pulse of adrenaline. He stood slowly, his chair scraping the floor.
"What situation?" His voice came out lower than he intended, a rough gravel in his throat.
She gestured toward the hall. He followed, his footsteps heavy against the linoleum. The moment they stepped into the bullpen, the air felt charged. Phones were ringing off the hook, officers pacing with furrowed brows, and dispatchers shouting over each other as radio chatter bled through.
The 911 helplines were lit up like a Christmas tree, their operators barely keeping pace. One dispatcher was practically yelling into her headset.
"Ma'am, calm down, where are you? Hello? Hello?"
Hawkings scanned the room, his instincts prickling. This wasn't just another disturbance. This was big.
He turned to the officer beside him. "Talk to me."
She swallowed. "We've got multiple reports coming in. Witnesses are saying… something's out there. Some kind of supernatural entities swarming through Moonstone. Wrecking neighborhoods. Attacking people."
His stomach dropped. "Werewolves?"
Her face twitched, as though she wanted to laugh at the guess but couldn't. Instead, she shook her head.
"No. Not werewolves. Something else. Analysts are still trying to figure it out. But it's bad, sir. Real bad."
For the briefest second, Hawkings thought about John's message again. Dhampyrs.
The word felt like a ghost breathing down his neck.
His colleague's voice softened, uneasy. "What are you going to do?"
Hawkings' eyes flicked around the room. His colleagues were already spiraling, some pulling on gear, some frozen at their desks. His instincts screamed at him, louder than any rational thought.
Without answering her, he backed up a step, then another, retreating toward his office.
She frowned. "Detective?"
But he was already moving. He pushed into his office, shut the door, and crossed quickly to his desk. His sidearm was there, holstered, but it wasn't enough. He reached down, unlocking the bottom drawer, and pulled out his shotgun. The weight of it steadied his shaking hands. He grabbed a utility belt and slid in shells of slugs, the cold brass clinking together like a grim metronome.
When he turned back, the officer was standing in the doorway again, confusion written across her face.
"Where are you going?"
"Home," he muttered, voice like stone.
She blinked, startled. "Detective—"
But he brushed past her without another word. His mind wasn't on the precinct anymore. It wasn't on procedure. It was on his wife. His family.
The night air slammed into him as he burst out the station doors. His sedan was waiting, the familiar grey frame catching the glow of the streetlamps. He yanked the door open, threw himself inside, and jammed the keys into the ignition. The engine roared awake, headlights flaring against the darkness.
He floored it. Tires screamed against asphalt, the car fishtailing before gripping the road. His chest felt like a furnace, sweat breaking along his browline. One hand clutched the wheel, the other fumbled with his phone as he dialed his wife's number.
It rang. Once. Twice. Three times.
No answer.
"Come on, come on…" His voice was a low growl, thick with panic. He tried again, knuckles whitening around the steering wheel. Still nothing.
The silence on the other end was deafening.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, heart pounding. His sedan tore down the streets, sirens wailing in the distance, the city unraveling around him. He cut corners sharp, the tires screeching dangerously. At one turn, the car skidded, almost losing traction. He swore under his breath and corrected, foot pressing harder to the floor.
His thoughts screamed louder than the engine. Please be safe. Please be safe. Please be safe.
Then, something.
His headlights swept across the street ahead. A man was running, desperate, his arms flailing as though trying to outrun his own shadow. And chasing him. No, hunting him, was a figure.
Not human.
It lunged, long limbs stretching unnaturally, its body pale and feral. In a blink, it pounced, slamming the man onto the asphalt.
Hawkings slammed the brakes. The car skidded to a halt with a shrill cry of rubber. He was out the door before he knew it, shotgun leveled, heart hammering in his throat.
"Hey!" he barked, his voice cracking the night.
The thing's head twisted unnaturally toward him, eyes beady and glistening. Hawkings didn't wait. He squeezed the trigger.
The blast shattered the night. The creature jerked, but it didn't fall.
He fired again. And again. Five consecutive shots. The echoes boomed against the walls of the quiet street. Finally, the thing slumped, collapsing heavily onto the man it had pinned.
The civilian scrambled, shoving the limp carcass off him, chest heaving in terror. Hawkings strode forward, shotgun still raised, his breath ragged.
"You okay?" he called out.
The man nodded frantically, still on the ground, sweat shining on his face. "Y-Yeah. I—I think so."
"Then get out of here!" Hawkings snapped, his voice sharp, commanding. "Find somewhere safe. Don't stop running."
The man stumbled to his feet, nodding again before bolting down the street.
Hawkings wasted no more time. He sprinted back to his car, shoving the shotgun across the passenger seat as he gunned the engine once more.
The radio crackled. Dispatch's voice filled the cabin, frantic but clear.
"Attention all units. The entities have been identified. Repeat, the entities have been identified. Subject confirmed as dhampyrs. Extremely hostile. Kill on sight. Lethal shots only. I repeat. kill on sight."
Hawkings' grip on the wheel tightened. The word hung in the air like a curse.
Dhampyrs.
He pressed the accelerator, the city lights blurring past. His mind was consumed with a single, desperate question.
Are they safe? Or am I already too late?
Meanwhile, Adam stood frozen. He's sneakers pressed against the polished floor, the faint squeak of rubber on linoleum somehow louder than his own breath. He was staring eye to eye with one of the creatures. Its face was wrong. Pale, almost gray skin stretched too tight over sharp cheekbones, lips torn back over pointed teeth that were buried in red. Its eyes were hollow black pits with a faint glimmer of hunger, met Adam's for a heartbeat. That single look made his chest seize with terror.
Adam's instincts roared louder than his thoughts. He turned and bolted.
The sound of his sneakers slapping against the floor was deafening now, echoing against the walls as he tore up the walkway. His breath came in sharp, ragged bursts, chest rising and falling too fast as adrenaline seized every muscle.
The door was ahead. His only escape. He crashed into it with his shoulder, nearly stumbling as it gave way, and shoved it shut behind him with all his strength. The heavy slam echoed like a gunshot in the silence. For a brief, trembling moment he felt a wave of relief.
It lasted only seconds.
From the other side came the pounding. Heavy, violent. The wood shuddered with each strike. Adam pressed his back against it, gripping the handle tight, his breath hitching as the pounding turned into scratching, tearing, a guttural screech vibrating through the frame.
"No, no, no," he whispered under his breath, his voice breaking, hands trembling so violently he nearly lost his grip. His heart thrashed against his ribs as though trying to break free.
The sound of wood splintering ripped through the air.
Adam's survival instinct surged. He had no choice but to run. His legs carried him before his mind caught up, every nerve in his body screaming. His lungs burned, muscles screamed in protest, but terror made him push harder, faster.
Behind him the door finally gave. The crack of wood snapping apart cut through the hall like a whip, followed by the sound of claws striking tile. Their snarls grew louder, closer, echoing through the maze of corridors.
Adam's throat burned with every breath as he sprinted into the darkness. The pounding of his shoes was matched by the pounding of something inhuman chasing after him.
He turned a corner too fast. His shoes skidded, the squeal echoing as he almost lost his footing. He slammed into the wall, pain sparking in his shoulder, but he didn't stop. He pushed off and ran again.
The corridors twisted and wound like a labyrinth. His vision blurred with sweat dripping into his eyes, his lungs crying for relief that never came. His body begged to slow down, but the snarls and the slamming of claws against tile were too close. Too real.
Then he crashed into it.
A wall of fur and muscle. His body rebounded as if he had struck a brick wall. Adam fell hard onto the floor, the sting of impact jolting through his spine. His breath tore out of him in a desperate gasp.
He looked up.
The towering figure stood bathed in the dim flicker of a failing light bulb. A white werewolf. Its frame was enormous, its fur ghostly pale that shimmered under the weak light like something unearthly. Its yellow eyes glowed with a cold intelligence that froze Adam's blood.
The creature's lips peeled back slowly, deliberately, revealing sharp teeth that glistened with saliva. A low growl vibrated from its chest, deep enough to rattle the air around him.
Adam scrambled back, his hands slipping against the tile as he tried to get away, but his limbs refused to obey. Fear locked him in place, paralyzed every muscle. His mind screamed to move but his body was stone, helpless before the nightmare looming over him.
The werewolf stepped forward. Each movement deliberate, slow, like a predator savoring the fear radiating off its prey. The sound of its claws tapping the floor echoed like the ticking of a clock.
Adam's chest heaved, eyes wide, heart beating so fast it felt like it would burst. He pressed his back against the cold floor, nowhere left to run, every instinct screaming at him that this was the end.
The creature lowered its head, eyes narrowing, breath washing over him hot and heavy with the stench of blood.
Adam's trembling hands lifted as if to shield himself, though he knew it was useless. His lips quivered. He couldn't even form words, only a broken whisper, a faint plea to a god he wasn't sure was listening.
The werewolf's teeth gleamed inches away.
And then it leaned closer.
The glow of its eyes burned in Adam's vision, searing into his memory. He lay frozen in place, preparing himself for the inevitable. The devouring that would follow.