The corridor outside the medical wing felt longer than Seraphina remembered.
Every step echoed. Not loudly -Silverfang Tower was engineered to absorb sound- but inside her chest the rhythm struck like a countdown. Each footfall reminded her that she was walking through a space that no longer recognized her as belonging.
The termination letter sat folded in her pocket. Its presence was heavy, as if ink alone could alter gravity. The elevator doors slid open without greeting. No priority access chime. No recognition flash. Just a hollow mechanical response.
She stepped inside.
The mirrored wall reflected a woman she barely recognized, pale, posture too rigid, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. Somewhere between the gala and now, her expression had changed. It carried the guarded look of someone expecting another blow.
The doors closed. The descent felt endless.
Her slate chimed. Not a notification this time, an error tone.
She glanced down. Access Denied; Silverfang Financial Network.
Her stomach tightened, she tried again. Denied.
Another system alert followed. Housing Registry Update: Unit Reassigned
The words sat there, sterile and absolute.
Her apartment. Gone.
She didn't feel the loss immediately. Instead, there was a strange delay; a suspended moment where her mind struggled to translate bureaucratic language into reality.
Then it hit.
Everything Silverfang provided -housing, credits, transport authorization- existed because she belonged to the pack structure.
And that structure had erased her.
The elevator doors opened onto the mid-level lobby.
Movement slowed when she stepped out.
Not dramatically -no one stopped outright- but wolves noticed. Eyes flickered toward her, then away. Conversations shifted tone. Bodies angled subtly, instinctively creating distance.
Pack awareness spread like a scent.
Disgraced. She walked forward anyway.
The lobby gleamed with polished glass and controlled elegance. Screens mounted along the walls streamed Silverfang Network programming. Her gaze caught on the central display.
Mira Ashwood stood framed in corporate silver and midnight tones, her posture immaculate.
"…Silverfang remains united," Mira was saying. "Moments of disruption do not weaken us; they clarify the importance of hierarchy and trust."
Her voice was warm, reassuring. Predatory.
The broadcast cut to footage of pack initiatives; charity programs, leadership briefings, smiling executives. The narrative was deliberate: stability restored.
Sera saw herself nowhere. Not as a correction. Not as aftermath.
She had been edited out of relevance.
A pair of administrative wolves crossed her path. They recognized her; she saw it in the brief widening of their eyes; but neither slowed. Their scents tightened, defensive, as if proximity alone might stain them.
She kept walking. Her destination pulled her forward on instinct: her apartment level.
She knew before the doors opened. Still, hope flickered; fragile, irrational.
The hallway was silent.
Her door stood closed, keypad dark. She approached, pressed her thumb to the scanner: 'Access Revoked'
The words glowed red, her breath stilled. She tried again, Denied.
Footsteps sounded behind her. Two Silverfang security officers approached; uniforms immaculate, expressions neutral. Wolves trained for enforcement carried a particular stillness. It radiated inevitability.
"Seraphina Vale," one said. His voice held no malice. No sympathy. Only procedure. "You are no longer authorized to occupy this unit." Her gaze flicked to the door.
"My belongings—", "Have been cataloged," he replied. "Non-pack assets will be released following clearance review."
Clearance review? A bureaucratic delay designed to ensure she left with nothing immediately useful.
Her throat tightened. "I need access," she said quietly.
"You no longer possess territorial rights," the second officer stated. "You are required to vacate Silverfang property."
Required? The words settled like iron.
She looked around. Doors along the hallway remained closed. But she could feel eyes watching through them; pack instinct drawn to the scent of exile.
Humiliation crawled under her skin. Not loud, not theatrical.
Just a steady awareness that she was being removed like a malfunctioning component.
She straightened her shoulders.
"Understood."
The officers nodded.
"Escort protocol," the first said. "This way."
They walked with her - not touching, not rushing- but their presence bracketed her path. Wolves passing in adjacent corridors noticed. Some paused. Others pretended not to see.
Former colleagues, faces she recognized from shared shifts, quiet lunches, hallway greetings.
None met her eyes. Distance wasn't cruelty, It was survival.
No one wanted association with a disgraced wolf.
The elevator ride to ground level felt heavier than the first. The officers stood on either side, silent pillars of enforcement. When the doors opened, the main lobby spread before them, bright, immaculate, indifferent.
Conversations faltered. Recognition rippled outward.
A disgraced auxiliary escorted by security was not a quiet event. It was a message.
Hierarchy correction in motion. She walked.
Every step felt exposed, screens continued broadcasting Silverfang's recovery narrative. Mira appeared again - smiling, poised - standing beside Kael in a recorded segment. He looked composed. Distant.
Untouched. His silence persisted even in imagery.
The contrast carved something sharp inside her. She did not look away.
The lobby doors parted, cold city air hit her face.
Beyond the threshold lay Silverfang's exterior plaza; wolves moving through morning routines, transport vehicles gliding past, the city alive and unaware of her personal collapse.
The officers stopped at the boundary line embedded in the pavement, the subtle shimmer marking Silverfang territory.
"This concludes escort," one said.
That was it. No ceremony, no acknowledgment, just the edge of belonging.
Sera stepped forward.
The moment her foot crossed the boundary, a sensation rippled through her; instinctive, primal. Pack territory carried a hum wolves felt in their bones. Leaving it without sanction felt like stepping into open water without knowing how deep it ran.
The officers turned away immediately. Protocol complete.
She stood there, alone.
The plaza continued around her, indifferent. Wolves passed, scents brushing her awareness; curiosity, dismissal, faint contempt.
Packless. The word echoed through her mind.
Her slate chimed again.
She looked down.
Territorial Authorization Revoked. Confirmation of what her body already knew.
Her chest tightened. Not with tears, not yet. With fear.
Not abstract fear, not emotional, but survival-level awareness.
Without pack protection, she was exposed to city laws that did not favour lone wolves. Territory disputes. Enforcement zones. Predators who hunted weakness.
Silverfang had not simply fired her. They had removed her shield.
She turned back once. Silverfang Tower rose behind her; glass and steel catching sunlight like a monument to power. Inside those walls, life continued uninterrupted.
Meetings.
Strategies.
Hierarchy intact.
She had been excised cleanly. No scar visible from the outside.
Her wolf stirred; weak, uncertain, but alive.
Survive. The instinct carried no comfort, only command.
Sera faced the city. Noise rushed in, traffic hum, distant voices, wind threading between buildings. The world beyond pack structure was louder, harsher.
Real. She adjusted the termination letter in her pocket, grounding herself in the weight of consequence. Loss settled deep in her bones, humiliation still burned beneath her skin, and threaded through both was something raw and undeniable: Survival fear, not panic, not despair.
A sharpened awareness that every step forward would require choice.
She took one. Then another.
Silverfang territory faded behind her.
The city did not welcome, but it did not close its doors either.
And for the first time since the gala, Seraphina Vale understood something with brutal clarity: No one was coming to restore what she lost.
Whatever came next; She would face it alone.
And the city was already watching.