From Ashes to Alpha

The Crimson Fang is the kind of establishment that doesn't exist on tourist maps.

Nestled deep in Shadow Fang Alley, its entrance is marked only by a faded red door with a barely visible scratch mark—a symbol recognized only by those meant to find it.

Inside, the air hangs heavy with cigar smoke and whispered conspiracies. The lighting is intentionally poor—dim enough to hide faces, bright enough to spot weapons.

The clientele is an assortment of the district's most dangerous individuals, each table a small territory unto itself.

I sit in the farthest corner, nursing a glass of whiskey that I've barely touched in the last hour.

Across from me, Daniel Reeves leans forward, his massive frame somehow managing to look casual despite the tension in his shoulders.

As Morgan's right-hand man, Daniel rarely ventures into public spaces without purpose.

"You look like shit, James," he observes, taking a sip from his own glass. "Rough few days?"

I offer a tired smile. "Hunting trip didn't go as planned."

"Heard about that," Daniel nods, his eyes constantly sweeping the room. "Word is you outran enforcers. Not many can claim that distinction."

"Just got lucky," I deflect, unwilling to elaborate on the events at the forest or the mysterious case Dominic gave me, which now sits hidden in my apartment.

"Luck only takes you so far in our world." Daniel's voice drops lower. "The rest is instinct and alliance."

A waitress approaches with fresh drinks. She's human, but her movements suggest she knows exactly what kind of establishment she works in—eyes down, movements efficient, no lingering. Smart girl.

Once she's gone, Daniel reaches into his jacket and slides a folded note across the table. "Tomorrow night there's an important meeting," he murmurs after taking another sip. "I want you there."

I raise an eyebrow, not touching the paper. "What kind of meeting?"

"Strategic." Daniel's eyes track a group of loud newcomers at the bar. "Gray Pack has been making moves on our territory. All core members will be present."

"I'm not a core member," I point out, finally picking up the note and unfolding it. Inside is an address—one in the affluent part of the city—and a time: 10 PM.

Daniel's lips curve into a knowing smile. "This is your opportunity to become one. Morgan took notice of your performance in the black market. He was impressed."

I fold the note carefully and slip it into my pocket, considering my options.

Elevation within Morgan's organization would mean resources, protection, influence—all things I desperately need if I'm going to continue surviving in this world between worlds.

"How many will object to my presence?" I ask after a moment of contemplation.

"At least three," Daniel admits, his honesty surprising me. "The old guard doesn't welcome new faces easily, especially someone with... your complicated background."

"You mean a family cast-off? A worthless runt?" I laugh without humor, the old pain briefly resurfacing.

Daniel's expression turns serious. "I mean someone with the potential to change the game. You have connections to the Jones family, yet you've earned the black market's respect. You're exactly the bridge we need."

I take a proper sip of my whiskey, letting the burn focus my thoughts. The wooden case from Dominic flashes in my mind—I still haven't opened it, unsure what strings might be attached to such a "gift."

He drains his glass. "The meeting. Can I count on you?"

I remain silent for a moment, weighing my options. Attending means deeper involvement with Morgan's organization—more danger, but also more protection.

Refusing could be interpreted as rejection of Morgan's interest—potentially dangerous in its own way.

"What time, what place?" I finally nod.

Daniel taps the pocket where I've stored the note. "It's all there. Dress appropriately. These aren't warehouse thugs—they're the upper echelon."

"I do own a tie," I reply dryly.

He chuckles. "Wear it."

He straightens and moves toward the exit, nodding to several patrons on his way out. The respect they show him is evident—a mixture of fear and deference.

I remain seated, finishing my drink slowly. The folded note feels like it's burning a hole in my pocket.

The address on Daniel's note leads me to what appears to be an abandoned textile factory in the industrial district.

Its weathered brick exterior and boarded windows suggest decades of neglect, but I notice the subtle signs that contradict this impression—fresh tire tracks in the gravel, recently installed security cameras disguised as broken fixtures, and the faint scent of gun oil and expensive cologne.

Daniel waits for me at a side entrance, his massive frame silhouetted against the dim light spilling from inside. He gives my appearance a quick once-over—I've opted for a dark suit, simple but well-tailored, with a charcoal tie.

"Not bad," he comments, opening the heavy metal door. "Remember, speak only when spoken to. First impressions matter here."

I nod, steeling myself as we step inside. The factory's interior bears no resemblance to its decrepit exterior.

The vast open space has been transformed into an impressive meeting venue, centered around an enormous round table crafted from what appears to be a single massive tree trunk.

Maps and digital screens line the walls, displaying territory boundaries, statistical data, and surveillance footage.

Around the table sit fifteen men and women of varying ages, all exuding the unmistakable aura of power that comes with their position in the supernatural hierarchy.

Some I recognize from previous dealings in Shadow Fang Alley; others are completely new to me. All of them turn to stare as I enter with Daniel.

The weight of their collective scrutiny is palpable—like walking into a den of predators while bleeding. I keep my posture relaxed but alert, my expression neutral despite the tension coiling in my gut.

"You're late," a gruff voice announces from the head of the table. Morgan sits in an elevated chair, his rings glinting under the overhead lights.

Unlike our previous meeting in the black market, he's dressed impeccably now—tailored suit, polished shoes, and a blood-red tie secured with a silver pin shaped like a wolf's head.

"Traffic," Daniel responds simply, guiding me toward the table.

I notice with surprise that Morgan gestures to an empty seat near his position—a clear statement to everyone present about my status. The murmurs around the table intensify.

"This is highly irregular," an elderly woman with steel-gray hair comments, her eyes sharp as she evaluates me.

"So are Gray Pack's recent activities, Victoria," Morgan counters smoothly. "Irregular times call for irregular measures."

As I take my seat, a scarred man across the table makes no attempt to hide his displeasure. His face is a roadmap of violence—three parallel claw marks run from his left temple to his jaw, and a burn scar covers most of his right cheek.

His eyes, however, remain cold and calculating.

"So this is your golden boy?" he sneers, addressing Morgan while glaring at me. "A wolf pup even his own family threw away?"

The room falls silent, all eyes moving between the scarred man, Morgan, and myself. It's a deliberate provocation, designed to test my temperament.

I remain silent, meeting the man's gaze without flinching.