Chapter 7 On the Brink of Collapse

Jack staggered back into the motel, his face pale, his limbs ice-cold.

Aisha was already waiting inside. The moment she saw him, her fingers tightened around her gun, eyes filled with wary suspicion.

Jack noticed her reaction. A sinking weight settled in his chest, his throat tightening.

"…You're afraid of me?"

Aisha didn't answer. She simply rested her finger on the trigger, slowly tracing the gun's surface.

Jack's heart pounded. "Aisha, do you think I killed that man?"

Her gaze was sharp, calm yet laced with danger. "Tell me—can you say with absolute certainty that you didn't?"

Silence.

Jack's breathing turned uneven. He wanted to deny it, but when he saw the dried blood under his nails, the words stuck in his throat.

He couldn't prove his innocence.

Hell, he didn't even know what he had done last night.

Aisha's eyes were piercing. "Jack, if you can't control yourself… you'll become something far more dangerous than the werewolf hunters."

She didn't sugarcoat it.

Jack's fingers trembled slightly. His mind and emotions were tearing apart—one part rejecting her words, another part terrified that she might be right.

Could he even trust himself anymore?

Aisha didn't take her eyes off him. She spoke softly but firmly:

"If you lose control… I won't hesitate."

The words stabbed into Jack's chest like a dagger.

She was ready to kill him if necessary.

He stared at her, searching for something in her expression—something he could hold on to.

But he found nothing.

He took a slow step back, his voice hoarse. "You don't trust me…"

Aisha didn't deny it.

Jack felt a wave of cold wash over him.

He had to do something.

He had to prove he wasn't the killer.

He had to find the truth.

Midnight, the Other Side of the City

Jack walked alone down the empty streets, his mind racing.

He needed to know what happened last night.

He returned to the crime scene—a dead-end alley, dark and damp, the faint scent of blood still lingering in the air.

Dried bloodstains covered the ground. Deep claw marks slashed across the brick walls, as if some wild beast had torn through its prey here.

Jack clenched his fists.

A werewolf did this.

But… was it him?

Closing his eyes, he forced himself to recall the night. But his memory was still a blank void, as if those crucial hours had been erased from his mind.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed down the panic and began searching the area.

If he had done this, there had to be more evidence…

Slowly, he moved toward the spot where the body had been found.

Then—

A faint crack sounded under his boot.

He looked down.

A torn black card lay on the ground, its edges soaked in dried blood.

Frowning, Jack picked it up and turned it over.

A symbol was printed on it—one he had never seen before.

A black triangle, crossed by two silver daggers.

His heartbeat spiked.

This wasn't a werewolf symbol.

It belonged to the werewolf hunters.

Why was something from the hunters left here?

Unless… they were the real killers.

His mind reeled, but before he could process it—

A faint footstep sounded behind him.

Jack spun around.

Bang!

A gunshot tore through the silence. The bullet grazed his ear, slamming into the wall behind him with a burst of dust.

Jack dove into the shadows, his pulse hammering.

They were here.

Slowly, he peeked out from cover, scanning the alley.

A tall, dark figure emerged from the shadows.

The man wore a black tactical suit, a badge on his chest—the same symbol as the one on the card.

A werewolf hunter.

The man stopped a few feet away, tilting his head slightly.

"Jack Randall." His voice was deep and emotionless. "You killed that man."

Jack's gaze darkened. He spoke through gritted teeth. "It wasn't me."

The hunter lifted his hand and tossed something toward Jack.

A photograph.

Jack caught it instinctively and looked down.

It was a picture of him.

Standing over the corpse.

His eyes glowed red.

His hands were soaked in blood.

His stomach twisted violently.

No… this isn't real.

"You killed him," the hunter said coldly. "We have witnesses. People saw you transform. They saw you tear that man apart."

"You can't escape the truth."

Jack's breath came in sharp gasps. His fingers clenched around the photo.

Was this real?

Or was someone pulling the strings?

No… something didn't add up.

If they really had witnesses and solid proof—

Then why hadn't they just executed him?

A chilling realization struck him.

They weren't here to kill him.

They were here to break him.

To push him into confessing.

To make him doubt himself.

Jack's expression hardened.

No.

He wouldn't fall for it.

His eyes locked onto the hunter's. Slowly, he stepped back, voice low and steady.

"If I really am a werewolf…" his lips curled into a bitter smile, "then why aren't you killing me right now?"

A flicker of amusement crossed the hunter's face.

"Because," he murmured, "you're worth more alive."

Then—

He raised his hand.

Snap.

At the sound of his fingers clicking—

Dozens of gun barrels emerged from the darkness, all aimed at Jack.

He was surrounded.