Chapter 1
1427words
Frank stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows atop Fenrir Capital headquarters, gazing down at the view. Forty floors below, New York City's myriad lights flowed like a brilliant river of stars, each light hiding a small yet vivid story he'd never know.
The deal was done.
The acquisition of Sterling Road Company—a chess move cementing his dominance for the next decade—was finally complete. Victory trumpets had sounded, yet instead of satisfaction, his body burned with a persistent, restless heat.
It smoldered beneath his skin, mingling with bone-deep exhaustion and something far more dangerous.
Something... that wasn't right.
"A glorious victory, Frank." His deputy Leo appeared beside him. "Those old diehards at Sterling Road never stood a chance."
Frank didn't turn. He craved the cold wind, wished this damn airtight glass cage would crack just enough to let him breathe one fresh gulp of air.
Pressure.
He tried labeling the abnormality inside his body with this cold, rational word. Just a normal reaction to sustained high-pressure work.
But he knew his body better than any precision instrument ever could. This wasn't the familiar fatigue following victory in bloody business wars. This was something primal—an ancient warning bell clanging in his DNA.
Tonight was a full moon.
A full moon, pristine to the point of cruelty, slowly climbed the night sky. Its cold radiance kissed the pinnacle of his steel fortress perched above the clouds.
For a werewolf, the moon is a perpetually loaded gun suspended above one's head. The Suppressant remains the sole barrier between sanity and madness, survival and destruction.
"Sir, your potion." Leo's voice cut through his thoughts as he presented an exquisitely designed silver box, like a loyal attendant offering a royal scepter.
Frank finally turned, fixing Leo with a clinically cold gaze.
He scanned Leo from head to toe—the well-tailored suit, the impeccable Windsor knot, and the thin layer of sweat on his upper lip glistening faintly in the light.
Leo had stood by his side for fifteen years, his most loyal deputy since founding Fenrir Capital. But tonight, the hand holding the silver box trembled slightly. And his gaze, for just a moment, deliberately avoided Frank's eyes.
A predator's instinct—an ancient, absolute intuition etched in his bloodline—instantly caught this tiny detail. What had flashed in that look? Fear? Or guilt?
Frank brutally suppressed the thought. Leo, like himself, had been grinding for twenty hours straight. He was just being paranoid.
He reached for the box, opening it with a sharp snap.
On the black velvet lining rested a small vial of transparent, viscous liquid.
The miracle of modern alchemy—this unassuming little thing allowed his kind to walk among humans, building vast business empires instead of hiding in dark forests, surviving on raw flesh and blood like their ancestors.
With movements practiced like religious ritual, he pulled the stopper and tilted his head back, downing the liquid in one gulp.
It was colorless and tasteless—a symbol of safety, the wall of rationality being fortified once again. Every day at this time, when he swallowed this vial, that familiar cooling sensation, like menthol, would spread throughout his body, calming the blood stirred by the moon's pull.
But not today.
As the liquid slid down his throat, the fire smoldering inside him didn't subside—it exploded as if someone had poured an entire barrel of boiling oil onto it!
He clenched his jaw, the muscles in his neck instantly tensing like steel cables twisted to their breaking point.
The alarm inside him was no longer a subtle buzz.
Something had gone terribly wrong.
Something catastrophic, capable of destroying everything, had happened.
He jerked his head up, fixing Leo with eyes that seemed about to burst into flames. His loyal deputy of fifteen years turned paper-white in an instant.
Frank knew who was behind this.
Marcus. That longtime rival who had always coveted his position and schemed to devour his business empire. No one else had the motive or courage to plant such a bomb in his heart. And Leo was the knife Marcus had used.
Now was not the time to assign blame.
He had to leave. Away from his subordinates, away from any innocent life in this city. He needed an absolutely isolated cage. His mind still maintained razor sharpness. The penthouse security system was military-grade; once locked down, no one could enter or leave. That magnificent prison he'd prepared for himself.
But... could he hold on during the car ride to his apartment?
The furnace within him roared madly, bestial instinct battering against thirty years of willpower with unprecedented ferocity.
The wolf was coming.
And this time, the reins holding it back had snapped.
.
Nina stepped back, tilted her head slightly, and examined the canvas before her, the scent of her signature perfume lingering in the air.
It was a portrait of an unfamiliar, wrinkled old woman, inspired by a face she'd found in an old photograph. She'd already spent a week on this painting, focusing especially on the eyes.
But those eyes remained hollow. She couldn't capture that small gleam of soul she desperately wanted to convey.
Perhaps... a touch more ultramarine in the shadows of the left iris?
The other students had left hours ago. Nina always found more solace here, in the silent company of unfinished masterpieces and the ghosts of past artists.
Her phone vibrated next to the easel—a message from her friend Lily. A photo of a noisy bar crowd bathed in colorful lights, followed by a text: "Seriously, are you planning to live in that studio forever? Come out and play! Tons of hot guys tonight!"
Nina smiled and replied "Almost done with the painting, have fun," then switched her phone back to silent mode.
She wasn't antisocial, but compared to noisy parties, she preferred this tranquility. Her world was simple—canvas, paints, and endless ideas. She loved this purity, this alchemy of transforming blank space into meaning with her own hands.
She began methodically cleaning her brushes, the bristles making a swish-swish sound against the glass jar—the only sound in the room. The full-length mirror reflected her image: an exhausted girl with a smudge of ochre on her cheek and a limp ponytail.
Just another ordinary Tuesday.
Or wait—was it already Wednesday? In the studio, time always blurred.
Finally, she covered the painting with a dust cloth—a small, solemn ritual. Time to leave. Her growling stomach was the most urgent reminder. Thinking of her cozy apartment, a steaming bowl of instant noodles, and that incredibly familiar, soft bed, she just wanted to hurry home.
She packed her supplies, slung the heavy portfolio and backpack over her shoulder, and turned off the main light. The room instantly fell into deep darkness, with only the safety indicator at the corridor's end stubbornly emitting a small patch of green.
The campus must be completely silent now.
She shivered, not from fear, but from the late October breeze carrying that piercing cold that heralded winter's approach.
The fastest way back to her dorm was through University Park with its ancient oaks. It was a shortcut she'd taken countless times, a tree-lined path usually quiet and safe even late at night. The alternative meant following the busy main road for an extra ten minutes—her aching legs firmly rejected this proposal.
The park it is, then.
The moment she pushed open the heavy door and stepped outside, crisp air embraced her—fresh and invigorating. It cleared away the last traces of the studio's stuffy atmosphere. Above her, between black silhouettes of Gothic campus buildings, the full moon hung like a polished silver coin.
It was astonishingly bright—a perfect, unblemished circle bathing the world in silver and black.
How beautiful.
She involuntarily stopped, pure artistic appreciation welling in her heart. She was mesmerized by how moonlight traced silver edges around each leaf, how it cast long, dramatically tense shadows on the path... This itself was a masterpiece waiting to be painted.
For that moment, she felt completely content. A quiet student, in a quiet world, walking home beneath beautiful moonlight.
She had no idea that the silent silver radiance bathing her was, just blocks away, the catalyst for a nightmare. Even less did she know that this shortcut—chosen for a moment's tranquility and beauty—would sever her steady life path in two.
She simply zipped her jacket tighter, pulled her knit hat down over her ears, and set off toward the deep shadows permeated by moonlight.
