Reynolds swallowed. “Everything. The lights. The air. My pulse.”
Melvin stepped closer. Instantly Reynolds’ shoulders sagged. Mac rested a hand on his forearm. The tremors eased. Then Reynolds’ jaw clenched. His canines lengthened. “I don’t want to hurt anyone,” he breathed.
“You won’t,” Mac said.
Melvin leaned closer. “Stay with us. One breath at a time.”
The monitor steadied slightly. Reynolds lay trembling. “Something’s wrong,” he whispered.
“You’re here,” Mac said. “That’s what matters.”
Melvin stepped back, watching the numbers stabilize. The medic checked the IV line, murmuring something routine before stepping out to grab a fresh bag. For the first time since the courtyard, the room wasn’t on the edge of breaking.
Mac turned to Melvin. “When you came in covered in blood, I couldn’t tell how much of it was yours.”
Mac looked him over again.
Then his hand rose.
Not to the bandage.
To him.
His fingers closed lightly at the front of Melvin’s vest.
Mac’s eyes lifted. “You’re still standing.”
“So are you.”
Mac’s hand lingered. Then he let go.
Footsteps approached outside.
A knock sounded.
Three precise strikes.
Mac squared his shoulders.
Melvin slipped back into soldier posture.
Mac opened the door.
For a heartbeat, the room remembered it wasn’t private.
Chapter 11 - Mac
The door opened.
The corridor was there for half a second. White tile. Greenish light. A medic paused mid-step down the hall. Then the space folded.
There was no flash, no gust, no visible ripple. The room simply sealed itself. Sound dulled as if caught in thick cloth. The fluorescent light sharpened into something colder, and the edges of the walls felt farther away than they had a moment before.
Mac felt his wolf stir behind his ribs. Not challenge. Not panic. Just recognition. The quiet instinct that told a soldier a new chain of command had just entered the AO.
Three figures crossed the threshold without touching the doorway. They looked human at first glance. Correct proportions. Familiar features. The suggestion of warmth where it should be. But the longer Mac watched them, the more the illusion failed. Their clothing wasdark and unadorned, cut simply without rank or insignia, yet it carried a weight that made Mac’s uniform feel suddenly temporary.
The first, the one in the center, moved with the quiet certainty of someone who had never waited for permission in his life. His hair was silver at the temples and black elsewhere, combed back from a face that could have belonged to a politician or a judge if not for the eyes.
