Chapter 1 Preview

[Scene begins with Ash entering the warehouse to confront Maurice...]

Pressing himself against the cool metal of the adjacent shelf, he peered around the corner to confirm the coast was clear. Satisfied, he crossed the last stretch of open space swiftly. He pressed his back against the wall, exhaling slow and steady. The door loomed inches away.

Then, in one fluid motion, he gripped the handle and pushed the door open. The pistol came up instantly, his eyes cutting across the room in a precise sweep.

The air hit thick and stale—old pizza, sweat, and something sour lurking beneath it. The room was dimly lit, with a lived-in feel that spoke of long hours and little care for tidiness. Stacks of pizza boxes sat precariously on a side table, a trash can nearby filled to overflowing. Against one wall, a small fridge hummed faintly, its surface covered in stickers and old magnets. To the side, a battered couch sagged under the weight of a pile of laundry draped over its back.

Seated on the couch was another man, his expression frozen in dumbfounded shock at his sudden entrance. His wide eyes flicked between Ash and the Glock, his hands frozen mid-motion as if debating whether to raise them or keep still.

Ash's lips curled into a faint smirk. "Relax. I’m not here for you." The words came out dry, effortless. His eyes didn’t leave the man as he continued, "Where’s your friend?"

The man swallowed hard, his head jerking in the direction of a door near a small wall-mounted TV. The word "Restroom" was printed in peeling letters on its surface. "In there," he stammered, barely above a whisper.

"Anyone else in here?" he asked, his tone calm but edged with warning as his gaze remained fixed on the man.

His eyes flickered toward the bathroom door before snapping back to Ash. "No... no one else," he said quickly, his voice trembling.

"Good. Sit tight and behave yourself. This’ll be over quick, and no one has to get hurt." He nodded once, his smirk returning.

Moving to the other side of the bathroom door, his steps were quiet as he positioned himself beside it. The pistol stayed steady in his grip, his body pressed close to the wall. His gaze cut to the man on the couch. One finger to his lips—silent and sharp. No more warnings needed.

Waiting, the seconds stretched on in tense silence, until the creak of hinges broke the stillness. The door opened outward into the room, and the target stepped out, his movements unhurried.

"Man, those spicy burritos really don’t agree with me," his voice carried a casual annoyance as he wiped his hands on his jacket. Looking toward the couch, his words trailed off as he noticed the other man’s wide-eyed stare. Brows knitted together, confusion flashed across his face. "What’s your problem—"

The gears clicked a second later. He turned, stiff—then froze, his breath catching as he locked onto the unwavering muzzle of the pistol. The blood draining, panic flashed across his features.

"Sounds like someone's got a rumbly tumbly" Ash said, his tone deadpan. He cocked his head slightly. "Maurice, right?"

The man swallowed hard, his face paling as the pieces clicked together. Maurice twitched, instinct screaming at him to bolt. He barely shifted before Ash stepped in, caught him by the chest, and sent him crashing back into the couch.

The man landed hard on his backside, a grunt of surprise escaping him as he scrambled, crab-walking backwards in a panicked frenzy. "Wait! Wait! You don’t need to kill me!" he babbled, his words tumbling out in a frantic rush. "I wasn’t skimming much! Nothing worth dying over!”

Pistol still leveled, Ash paused. His sharp gaze pinned the man in place as he tilted his head slightly. "Maurice," he asked again, his tone cold and deliberate, "that’s you?"

"Yeah, shit man, I’m Maurice," the man stammered, his voice shaking. His hands trembled as he raised them, sweat beading on his forehead. His legs twitched, as though ready to jump up and bolt. "Look, I can fix this! I can get the money back, I swear! You don’t need to kill me!"

His voice grew more frantic as he scrambled to find the right words. "Just tell the boss—I’ll get the money back! I can fix this, I swear!"

Stepping forward, his movements calm and deliberate, Ash reached into his pocket and retrieved a pair of cuffs. The metallic clink of the steel seemed to punctuate the quiet tension in the room.

"Your boss?" he asked, the tone was dry, almost amused. "Don’t know him. Don’t care about your money."

Maurice froze, his fear quickly replaced by growing confusion.

Crouching low, he kept his grip on the pistol steady, each movement deliberate and unhurried, as though time itself bent to his will. "What I do care about," he said, his voice dropping to a cold edge, "is the SPD bounty on your head—for that little hit-and-run of yours."

Maurice flinched as though the words had struck him. His breath came in shallow gasps, his wide eyes darting to the door, searching for an escape. "I—I didn’t mean to…"

"Remember her?" The words were soft, almost a whisper. "The Hellkin woman. The one you ran down. Ring any bells?"

Stammering, his words tumbled over each other in a rush. "There was a party, okay? I’d had too much to drink, and it was late. It was dark—she shouldn’t have even been there! And—and she was just a Hellkin!"

A muscle in Ash’s jaw twitched—small, controlled, but there. Cold rage simmered beneath his stillness, waiting, coiled tight. He regarded the panicked man in silence, his stare cutting through the man's frantic excuses. The pause stretched, the tension in the room thick enough to choke.

The stillness shattered—the bathroom door creaked open, followed by the unmistakable clack of a shotgun racking a shell.

"Well, fuck me," Ash hissed, already moving. He twisted and dove right, aiming for cover behind a desk before the blast could tear through him. The air felt electric, the moment stretched taut as he hit the ground and rolled, pistol still gripped firmly.

A third man stepped fully into the room, the sawed-off shotgun in his hands swinging up as Ash dove behind the desk.

The shotgun roared, the blast swallowing the room in a violent crack.

Splinters exploded from the desk, biting into his coat as birdshot tore into the walls. The air recoiled—thick with dust and the sting of gunpowder. He gritted his teeth as debris rained down, the sharp scent of gunpowder filling his nostrils.

"Got ya now, motherfucker!" the man with the shotgun bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos as he fired again. The deafening blast sent another wave of destruction ripping through the desk, splinters flying as he pressed himself low against the floor.

In the chaos, Maurice and the man on the couch scrambled to their feet, panic etched into their faces. Without so much as a glance back, they bolted for the door, their desperate footsteps echoing through the room.

Eyes flickering toward the fleeing figures, he took note of their movements even as the shotgun barked a third time.

The spray of pellets tore through the air, slamming into the walls and what remained of the upper half of the desk, sending another rain of debris scattering across the room. He shifted his position, pressing closer to the floor as debris continued to rain down.

His gaze darted under the desk, catching sight of the gunman’s boots. He narrowed his eyes and steadied his pistol, taking aim at the man’s feet.

Two sharp cracks echoed through the room as he fired. The first round struck the gunman squarely in the foot, the impact forcing a howl of pain from his throat. The second shot followed a heartbeat later, slamming into his shin with a sickening crack. The man staggered backward, his screams filling the air as he dropped the shotgun and fell.

Scrambling to his feet, his movements fluid despite the chaos around him, he bolted for the door, pistol still in hand, as he scanned the warehouse beyond.

The space had erupted with motion—some workers fled toward the exits, others ducked behind crates and pallets, peeking out with morbid curiosity.

It didn’t take long for him to spot Maurice and the other man weaving through the maze of barrels and stacked pallets. Without hesitation, he took off after them, his boots pounding against the concrete as he closed the distance.

Maurice glanced over his shoulder, panic flaring in his eyes as he saw Ash gaining. He stumbled slightly, but kept running, darting around a corner and attempting to lose himself among the cluttered aisles.

The chase didn’t last long. Maurice barely made it around a stack of pallets before Ash caught him—one firm grip on his collar, then a brutal yank. He yelped, his arms flailing as Ash pulled him off balance, sending him crashing to the floor. Moving quickly, Ash had him pinned down with ease in short order.

Maurice had barely hit the ground before movement flickered at the edge of Ash’s vision. He turned—just in time to see a tall, silver-furred figure emerge through the open bay door. Her stride was unhurried, predatory, boots striking the concrete with purpose. Wild black hair whipped around lupine ears, and her emerald eyes locked onto the second man with chilling focus.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t have to.

One arm shot out—fast as a striking snake—slamming across his chest like an iron bar. The impact sent him airborne. Gravity finished the job. Silver tail lashing.

Layla.

Before he could recover, she pounced, her movements swift and savage as she grappled with him. She twisted his arm, rolled him over, and drove his face into the concrete. Claws sank into his shoulder—unyielding.

Maurice struggled briefly, but the cuffs snapped into place with practiced ease. Ash exhaled, rocking back onto his haunches, eyes shifting to her. He took in the controlled way she moved, the calculated pressure in her grip, the way the afternoon light shimmered in her hair and fur.

She wasn’t just finishing a job—she was making a statement. She hadn’t changed. Still moved like she had something to prove—even when she already had.

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