The Howl of Secrets...

Ayin

The idea of a wild wolf being involved with the mayor's death didn't just feel improbable—it felt impossible. But it was the only lead we had.

Killian and I decided to return to the mayor's house. If there was any clue we'd missed earlier, we needed to find it now.

The drive there was quiet, the kind of silence that makes you feel like something's waiting just beyond your reach. Killian finally broke it.

"So, a wolf," he muttered, gripping the steering wheel. "You think someone's pulling strings, or are we actually dealing with some kind of animal attack?"

I leaned back in my seat, staring out the window. "I don't know," I admitted. "But it doesn't feel random. Why would a wolf be in his house? And even if it did kill him, how do you explain the gun?"

Killian shook his head. "None of this adds up. The mayor wasn't just some guy—he had security, cameras. You're telling me a wolf just waltzed in there?"

I didn't respond, my mind already running in circles. Whoever—or whatever—was behind this, it felt deliberate. And that made it worse.

When we arrived at the mayor's house, the place felt different. The crime scene tape was gone, but there was a stillness in the air that made my skin crawl. The house was imposing, its large windows reflecting the overcast sky.

Killian parked the car just outside the gate, cutting the engine. "Well," he said, his tone light but his expression far from it, "back to the scene of the crime. Bet we're about to find nothing, as usual."

"Maybe," I said, grabbing my notebook. "But I have a feeling this place isn't done talking yet."

We stepped out, the crunch of gravel under our feet sounding too loud in the silence. As we approached the front door, I felt it again—that strange sense of unease, like someone was watching.

Inside, the house was far from clean. The air was thick, a mix of stale cologne, blood, and the faint sting of cleaning chemicals that couldn't quite mask the coppery scent of death. 

Yellow police tape marked the boundaries of what was once a place of power but was now a crime scene.

A uniformed officer gave us a quick nod as we flashed our IDs and stepped into the living room. It looked eerily untouched except for the scattered evidence markers. But the bedroom was different. The bed was soaked in a deep crimson stain, the sheets crumpled as if the mayor had struggled in his final moments.

Killian broke the silence, his voice low. "So, this is where it happened."

I nodded, keeping my eyes on the bed. "The killer shot him here. The blood pattern's too localized. No sign of a fight."

We scanned the room carefully, not touching anything, just observing. The cops had already combed through, but there was always something missed—something they hadn't looked at the right way.

Killian leaned against the doorway. "No wolf tracks. Nothing broken. Whatever happened, it wasn't an animal going wild."

"It's too clean for that," I agreed, my mind racing through possibilities.

We moved on to the rest of the house, our footsteps echoing on the hardwood floors. The study caught Killian's attention first. Unlike the bedroom, this room had a subtle sense of chaos—papers strewn across the desk, and a faint stain on the rug.

Killian crouched near the desk, his expression hardening. "Ayin," he called.

I joined him, my eyes immediately drawn to the dark, almost dried stain on the rug. "Blood?"

He nodded, pulling out his flashlight to get a better look. "This wasn't in the initial report, was it?"

"No, it wasn't." I straightened, my pulse quickening. "If the mayor was killed in the bedroom, what's blood doing here?"

Killian stood, his jaw tightening. "We need this tested."

The moment we stepped into the hallway, we ran into Detective Harland. His sharp eyes immediately landed on the two of us, narrowing in suspicion.

"What are you doing back here?" he barked.

Killian crossed his arms, meeting Harland's glare head-on. "Just doing our job, Detective."

"This isn't your job," Harland snapped. "You're journalists, not investigators. I don't need you contaminating my scene."

"Contaminating?" I shot back. "We just found blood in the study—blood that's not in your report. You might want to thank us instead of accusing us."

Harland's face darkened, his fists clenching at his sides. "You don't think we've already combed through every inch of this house?"

"Apparently not," Killian cut in, his tone sharper now. "Because there's blood in that study, and if you missed it, you missed something big."

Harland took a step closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous low. "Listen here, kid. You don't come into my crime scene and tell me how to do my job."

"Then do it," I retorted, my voice rising despite the tension. "Run a DNA test on that blood. If it's the mayor's, fine. But if it's not, you've got another layer to this case you're ignoring."

For a moment, the air was thick with unspoken challenges. Harland looked like he was about to throw us out, but then he exhaled sharply, his shoulders dropping just a fraction.

"Fine," he said through gritted teeth. "But if this is a waste of my time, you'll regret sticking your noses where they don't belong."

"Deal," Killian said, his tone cool but triumphant.

As Harland barked orders at one of the forensics team to collect a sample from the study, Killian and I exchanged a glance.

"You think he's going to follow through?" I asked quietly.

Killian smirked. "Oh, he'll do it. He can't afford to ignore it now. But whether he tells us the results is another story."

The study door closed behind the forensics tech, leaving us in the hallway again. My mind was spinning, trying to piece together the puzzle. The bedroom made sense for the murder scene—but the study? What could have happened there?

Killian leaned against the wall, his brow furrowed. "You know what this means, right?"

"Yeah," I said, the weight of it settling over me. "We're dealing with more than just a clean-cut murder."

As we left the house, the quiet street wrapped around us like a shroud. Killian and I had been here before, questioning every neighbor within earshot. We had retraced our steps now, hoping to find something we missed. But like before, we hit a wall of silence.

No one saw anything. No strange noises. No flashes of movement in the dark. Nothing.

As the last house faded into the distance behind us, Killian sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It's almost like this whole block went deaf and blind the night it happened."

I didn't respond immediately, kicking a stray pebble as we walked toward the car. The weight of the mayor's case pressed down harder now, and the blood in the study room had only raised more questions than answers.

"We're missing something," I said finally, my voice low. "There's no way something like this happens, and nobody notices anything."

Killian stopped, turning to face me. "The killer's good. Real good. They've made sure there's no trail to follow. But if there's blood in the study, there's a trail somewhere. We just have to find it.

I was about to agree when a voice cut through the stillness.

"You two seem to know more than you're letting on."

We turned sharply, instinctively bracing for whatever—or whoever—it was.

An elderly man stood there, leaning on a cane. His hunched posture didn't diminish the intensity in his gaze as he looked at us.

"Who are you?" Killian asked, his tone cautious but curious.

The man took a step closer, his cane tapping softly against the ground. "Just someone who's been listening. You're talking about wolves, aren't you?"

I exchanged a quick glance with Killian. "What do you know about wolves?" I asked carefully.

The man's lips pressed into a thin line. "Not here," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Come with me."

We followed him to a dimly lit corner of the street, away from the glowing streetlights and any potential eavesdroppers. The air felt heavier here. 

The man turned to face us, his expression as serious as the grave. "If you're looking for answers about the wolves," he said, "you won't find them here. But I know where you might."

Killian raised an eyebrow. "And where's that?"

The man hesitated, his grip tightening on the head of his cane. "There's a place. Holun. Past the old railway tracks, near the countryside. It's quiet now, but it wasn't always. People used to talk about strange things happening there. Animals disappearing. Shadows moving through the trees."

"Holun?" I repeated, frowning. "Why would we find answers there?"

The man's gaze was piercing, his voice dropping even lower. "Because Holun isn't just any place. The forest there... it's famous for its werewolves."

Killian let out a skeptical laugh, but there was no humor in it. "Werewolves? You're serious?"

The man's expression didn't change. "The creature you're looking for—it's not just a wolf. It's something else. Something that can walk like a man and hunt like a wolf. And if you think that sounds like a story, go to Holun and see for yourself."

I felt a chill run down my spine, but I tried to keep my composure. "Why are you telling us this? Why not the police?"

The man let out a humorless chuckle. "The police wouldn't believe me. And even if they did, they wouldn't go there. Not after what happened last time."

"What happened last time?" Killian asked sharply.

The man shook his head. "You don't want to know. But if you're going there... you'd better be ready for what you find. Because it won't be what you're expecting."

As he walked away, his cane tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm, the weight of his words settled over us like a storm cloud.

Killian finally broke the silence. "You think he's just a crazy old man, or do you think he's onto something?"

I didn't answer immediately, my mind spinning. "I don't know. But if there's even a chance he's right, we have to check it out."

Killian nodded, his jaw tightening.

We stood there for a moment longer, the wind picking up and whispering through the trees. The darkness seemed to stretch on forever, and I felt like it was staring back at me.