The office felt like it belonged to a man who didn't just own the city, but expected it to orbit him.
Glass walls stretched from polished marble floor to ceiling, the kind that could shift from transparent to opaque at the press of a button. Right now, they were clear, offering a panoramic view of Moonstone's skyline. Towers pierced the midday haze, sunlight bouncing off steel and glass in sharp, blinding flashes. Far below, the city moved in quiet patterns, traffic threading through streets, people reduced to dots in motion.
Austin stood a few feet from the desk, posture straight, shoulders squared beneath the clean lines of his uniform. The earpiece sat snug against his ear. The FSS badge rested neatly against his chest pocket, catching a sliver of light every time he shifted.
He closed the file in his hand with a soft snap.
"That concludes my report."
Silence followed.
Behind the desk, Alexander Farren didn't move immediately. He stood with one hand resting against the edge of the polished surface, the other tucked casually into his pocket. His gaze wasn't on Austin. It was on the city beyond the glass, jaw tight, expression carved from irritation and something colder beneath it.
When he finally turned, it was slow.
Measured.
"And you expect me to be satisfied with that?"
His voice was calm, but it carried weight. The kind that pressed into the room and made the air feel thinner.
Austin didn't flinch.
"No, sir," he said evenly. "I expect you to understand it."
Farren's lips twitched, not quite a smile. Not even close.
"Understand what?" he shot back, stepping away from the window. "That I just lost a small army of trained men? That I now have to sit down with grieving families and explain why their husbands, sons, and brothers aren't coming home?" His tone sharpened, each word landing harder than the last. "That I'll be bleeding money through compensation and insurance because your mission turned into a disaster?"
Austin held his ground, though his fingers tightened slightly around the file.
"To you, it looks like a loss," he replied. "But that's not the full picture."
Farren let out a quiet, humorless laugh.
"Oh, I'm dying to hear the part where this gets better."
Austin stepped forward, placing the file on the desk between them. He opened it again, turning it slightly so Farren could see.
"We recovered weapons," he said, voice steady. "High-grade explosives, modified delivery systems, tracking devices. Everything points to a coordinated operation. Cassius Vane's men were preparing to level that island."
Farren's eyes flicked down briefly, scanning the contents, but his expression didn't soften.
"They were going to destroy the castle," Austin continued, "with children still inside. And they were setting it up to trace back to your corporation."
That made Farren pause.
Just for a second.
Austin caught it.
"If we hadn't intervened," he pressed, "you wouldn't just be dealing with compensation payouts. You'd be dealing with criminal investigations, public outrage, and the collapse of your entire operation."
The room went quiet again.
Farren exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face before straightening. "Fine," he muttered. "I'll give you that. You stopped something worse."
He looked up, eyes narrowing.
"But you still failed to eliminate Vane."
Austin's jaw tightened slightly.
"Yes," he admitted. "We did."
Farren stepped closer to the desk, fingers tapping once against the surface.
"And the casualties?" he asked, voice lowering. "You want to explain those away too?"
Austin's gaze didn't waver, but something flickered behind it.
"They weren't a result of the mission parameters," he said. "They were an unforeseen variable."
Farren's eyes hardened. "Unforeseen."
"Sir," Austin said, more firmly now, "we were attacked at sea. Sirens."
The word hung in the air.
"They pulled men overboard using vocal manipulation," he continued. "Disoriented them. Drew them under. It wasn't something we were equipped to handle."
Farren's expression darkened, irritation sharpening into something more pointed.
"And whose fault is that supposed to be?" he asked.
Austin exhaled through his nose.
"Not yours," he said calmly. "Not directly."
That didn't help.
Farren's gaze snapped to him. "It sounds like you're trying to tell me otherwise."
"I'm telling you there's a flaw," Austin replied, unshaken. "Your tech is exceptional when it comes to werewolves. It's precise. Effective. Designed for them."
He gestured slightly with his hand.
"But outside of that? It leaves us exposed."
Farren scoffed. "This city has one of the highest werewolf populations in the world. That's what the tech is for."
"And that's the problem," Austin countered. "It's only for them."
He stepped closer now, voice tightening just slightly.
"Your branding says it gives humans an edge against all supernatural threats. That's not true. Not even close. The moment we encounter something outside that scope, we're vulnerable."
Farren's jaw flexed.
"You're telling me my entire operation is built on a lie?"
"I'm telling you it's incomplete," Austin said. "Dangerously so."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The tension in the room thickened, heavy enough to feel.
Then Austin went further.
"And that's not the only thing that doesn't add up."
Farren's eyes narrowed.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
Austin held his gaze.
"I did some digging," he said. "Your corporation has financial and operational ties to the Rivera Investment Group."
Farren didn't react immediately, but the shift was there. Subtle. Controlled.
"And?" he asked.
"And you have close connections to Elaine Rivera herself," Austin continued. "An alpha."
Silence.
"You're building tech designed to counter werewolves," Austin said slowly, "while maintaining alliances with one of the most powerful werewolf figures in the city."
He tilted his head slightly, studying Farren.
"That doesn't make sense. Not unless there's something else going on."
Farren stepped forward sharply, the calm façade cracking just enough to reveal the irritation beneath.
"You're stepping into territory you don't understand," he said, voice low and dangerous.
"Then help me understand it," Austin shot back.
The room tightened around them.
For a second, it felt like something might snap.
Farren pointed toward the door, sharp and decisive.
"Get out of my office."
Austin didn't move immediately. His jaw set, eyes locked onto Farren's.
Then, slowly, he closed the file.
"Understood."
He picked it up, turning without another word. His movements were controlled, but the tension clung to him like a second skin.
Behind him, the glass walls shifted, turning opaque with a soft hum as he approached the exit.
The door openned
---
Two hours ago on a different side of town, the police station felt quieter than usual.
Or maybe it was just Joe.
He sat slumped behind his desk, staring at a mug of coffee that had long gone cold. The surface had developed that thin, dull film that came with neglect, untouched for far too long.
He didn't reach for it.
Didn't move much at all.
His shirt was wrinkled, collar slightly askew. His tie hung loose, like he'd given up halfway through straightening it. There were faint shadows under his eyes, deeper than before, and his posture carried a kind of weight that hadn't been there days ago.
A hangover pulsed quietly behind his temples.
Not sharp.
Just constant.
I probably deserve it.
He exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair. The files on his desk sat open, scattered. Notes scribbled in margins. Names circled. Connections drawn.
Alexander Farren.
Rivera Investment Group.
Lines that led nowhere useful.
Or worse, led somewhere he couldn't trust.
Another dead end.
Earlier that morning, he'd sat across from Sheriff Nolan, the man's eyes watching him too closely, asking about the files.
Joe had lied.
Said they were lost during the home invasion.
The words had come out smooth. Easy.
Too easy.
Because he didn't trust him.
Not anymore.
Pawn.
The word echoed faintly in his mind.
Everyone was someone's pawn.
Including him.
He rubbed his face, dragging a hand down slowly, as if trying to wake himself up.
It didn't work.
The door opened without a knock.
Sheriff Nolan stepped in, casual as ever, a folder in hand.
"Joe," he greeted.
Joe straightened slightly, forcing himself to look present.
"Sheriff."
Nolan studied him briefly, eyes flicking over his disheveled appearance, the untouched coffee, the general state of… everything.
"You look like hell," Nolan said bluntly.
Joe let out a quiet breath. "Feel like it too."
Nolan didn't press. He stepped forward, placing the folder on the desk.
"I've got something for you."
Joe glanced at it, then back up. "There someone better suited for this?" he asked. "Procurement's not really my thing."
Nolan shook his head.
"I want you on this."
Joe frowned slightly. "Why?"
"Because you need to get out of this office," Nolan said plainly. "Sitting here isn't doing you any favors."
Joe didn't respond.
Nolan tapped the folder once.
"Farren Corp," he said. "You're going to meet with the mayor. Discuss a weapons deal for the department."
Joe's stomach twisted faintly.
Farren.
Of course.
He hesitated. "Sheriff…"
"That's an order," Nolan cut in, tone firm but not harsh. "Get your head on straight. Do the job."
Joe held his gaze for a moment longer.
Then exhaled.
"…Yes, sir."
The elevator ride up Farren Tower felt longer than it should have.
The walls were mirrored, reflecting a version of Joe he barely recognized. Tired. Hollow. A man running on fumes.
When the doors finally opened, the top floor greeted him with quiet luxury.
Clean lines. Soft lighting. Everything polished to perfection.
He approached the reception desk, where a sharply dressed woman looked up with a practiced smile.
"Detective Hawkings," she said smoothly. "The mayor is currently in a meeting. If you'd like to take a seat, I'll let you know when he's available."
Joe nodded, muttering a thanks before moving to the sofa.
It was softer than expected.
Too comfortable.
He leaned back slightly, eyes drifting toward the glass-walled office ahead. The panels were opaque, hiding whatever was happening inside.
Figures moved behind them. Shadows. Indistinct.
He didn't have long to wonder.
A soft hum filled the space as the glass shifted, turning transparent.
Voices leaked out, muffled but heated.
"…Get out of my office."
Joe's attention sharpened instantly.
Inside, Farren stood near his desk, posture rigid, irritation clear even from a distance. Across from him stood another man. Dark-skinned. Well-dressed. Composed in a way that felt deliberate.
The tension between them was obvious.
The other man said something Joe couldn't quite catch, then nodded once, gathering his documents.
He turned and walked out.
Up close, Joe caught the details. The controlled anger in his expression. The tightness in his jaw. The way he carried himself like someone used to holding the line, even when things pushed back.
Their eyes met briefly.
A curt nod passed between them.
Nothing more.
The man continued past him toward the reception desk, leaning in slightly to speak with the secretary in a lower tone. Whatever he said made her smile, even laugh softly.
"…guess we couldn't come to an agreement," he murmured. "You might want to check on him."
She nodded, still smiling, before slipping into the office.
Joe watched all of it.
Every detail.
Something's off.
The thought came instinctively.
A few moments later, the secretary returned.
"Detective Hawkings," she said, gesturing toward the office. "The mayor will see you now."
Joe stood slowly, adjusting his jacket.
His eyes flicked once more toward the man who had just left.
Then back to the office.
And as he stepped forward, that quiet, familiar instinct stirred again.
Something wasn't quite right.