The man's calloused fingers dug into the pressure point at the base of her spine, a brutal violation that sent a jolt of pure agony through the young werewolf. She gasped, her body convulsing, doubling over like a puppet with severed strings. "Do your damn job," he snarled, his breath hot and fetid against her ear. "That's the only reason they let you flea-ridden dogs out of your cages." His eyes, cold and devoid of empathy, raked over her. He hated her kind, all the things that clawed at the edges of his understanding, the things that defied his narrow, predictable world.
A primal fury churned within the girl, a desperate urge to lash out, to tear the smug satisfaction from his face. She wasn't weak, not in her true form. But the heavy manacles of silver biting into her wrists and ankles had leached away her strength, reducing her to something fragile, even less than human.
In the suffocating darkness of her mind, her wolf howled, a raw, untamed sound of torment. Since their capture by these… things, these monsters, she and her wolf had become a single, fractured consciousness, their pain intertwined in a way she hadn't known was possible. It was a perverse intimacy born of shared suffering.
Then came the kick, a brutal, bone-jarring impact to her abdomen that stole her breath and sent a searing wave of nausea through her. Tears, hot and involuntary, squeezed from her eyes. She didn't want to betray her own kind, but the will to resist had been beaten out of her, replaced by a gnawing shame that festered in her gut. With a trembling hand, she pointed, her finger a traitorous extension of her broken will. She indicated a figure huddled at a bus stop a hundred meters away, maybe less. A girl, barely older than herself, eighteen, nineteen at most. Even at this distance, a raw vulnerability clung to her like a shroud. She sat alone, seemingly lost in her own quiet sorrow, a loneliness that resonated with the wolf's deep-seated instincts.
The man followed her gaze, his own vision lacking the supernatural acuity of his captive. He grunted, pulling a pair of cheap binoculars from his belt. He scanned the distance, his lips curling into a predatory smirk.
He fumbled for his walkie-talkie, a flicker of anticipation lighting his dull eyes. He was about to deliver good news to the faceless bastards at base. But before he could speak, a blur of movement at his feet caught his attention. The werewolf, the one shackled in silver, fueled by a desperate surge of adrenaline or perhaps the raw agony of betrayal, had broken free. The three other men who had accompanied him roared in frustration and gave chase, their heavy boots pounding on the cracked asphalt. But the leader didn't move. A slow, cruel smile spread across his face. Protocol be damned.
He unholstered his sidearm, the cold steel a familiar comfort in his hand. He thumbed the transmit button on the walkie-talkie. "Found another one," he reported, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. Then, without a flicker of hesitation, the sharp crack of a gunshot tore through the oppressive silence. The bullet slammed into the fleeing werewolf's back, the impact throwing her forward before she collapsed in a broken heap.
His companions, now returning, exchanged irritated glances. "They want them alive," one of them muttered, his voice tight with annoyance. This loose cannon was going to cause problems.
The leader ignored him, his gaze fixed on the empty bus stop. The other girl was gone. "Let's go," he grunted, a grim determination hardening his features. Alive or dead, he'd been tasked with bringing them in. And he'd see it through, his own brutal methods be damned. He knew the second one couldn't have gotten far. This was a low-level monster. He could track her down with good old-fashioned human methods. The hunt was on, and he preferred it this way. Less mess to clean up later.