The Night Watch
The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.
Brendon leaned back in the armchair, fingers idly tapping against the leather armrest. The glow of the streetlights seeped in through half-closed blinds, painting fractured patterns across the floor. Outside, the city murmured—distant engines, a siren's wail, the wind skimming through alleys. He exhaled slowly, dragging a paw down his face.
The nightmare's shadow still clung to him, coiling in the corners of his mind, refusing to fade. Those voices—twisted and accusing, the bullet's searing pain, the name Redfur echoing like a ghost. Brendon growled low in his throat, jaw tight.
The phone buzzed on the table, shattering the silence. Brendon's ears flicked. The screen glowed with an unknown number, the vibration thrumming against the wood. He snatched it up, swiping across.
"Yeah?" His voice came out rougher than intended.
The reply was brisk, a deep and steady tone. "Sheriff Brendon?"
"Speaking."
"This is Robert Külh. Sorry to call you this late." A pause. "I was the interim Sheriff here for the past five, six months before you arrived."
Brendon straightened slightly, eyes narrowing. "Oh?"
"Yeah. Guess I'm back to bein' the assistant now that you're here," Robert said with a huff that might've been a laugh. "Just wanted to apologize for not meetin' you at the station earlier. My mother's in the hospital, so I had to step out."
Brendon's posture eased a fraction. "No need for apologies," he replied evenly.
"Appreciate it," Robert answered, a note of relief in his tone. "Actually, reason I'm callin'—just got a report in the Sheriff's office. Some young lads causin' trouble down in Baker's Alley. Figured I should give you a heads-up."
Brendon's eyes narrowed, fingers drumming absently against the chair. "And you're in the station now?"
"Yup. Thought we could handle this one together—if you're up for your first night shift."
Brendon snorted. "Be there in ten."
---
The Chill of the Night
Brendon hung up, setting the phone aside. He stretched, muscles protesting, and dragged himself upright. A headache pulsed at his temples, remnants of the nightmare's claws. Growling softly, he padded to the sink, splashing cold water over his face until the chill bit into his fur. It didn't wash away the fatigue, but it helped—barely.
His reflection glared back, water dripping from his muzzle. Red eyes, narrowed and shadowed. Brendon exhaled, shaking his head, and grabbed the half-empty cigarette packet from the counter. A flick of the lighter sent a dull ember flaring to life. The smoke curled into the air, acrid and familiar, easing some of the tension coiled in his shoulders.
"First night on the job," he muttered around the cigarette, voice dry. "Fantastic."
---
The Police Station
The police station loomed ahead, lights stark against the night sky. Brendon's boots echoed softly over the tiled floor as he pushed through the double doors, smoke trailing faintly from the corner of his mouth. The front desk officer—a jittery badger in a rumpled uniform—stiffened slightly at the sight of him but said nothing.
Robert Külh was waiting in the main office, leaning against a desk, ears pricked. He was taller than Brendon had imagined, with a dog-like head—broad muzzle, upright ears—and fur a dusty mix of grey and tan. His arms, more human than animalistic , were crossed casually, but his eyes—sharp and steady—betrayed the readiness in his posture.
"Sheriff," Robert greeted with a faint grin, straightening.
"Robert." Brendon's eyes narrowed slightly, studying him. "Dog hybrid?"
"Half-hound, if we're bein' specific," Robert replied with a shrug. "Figure it scares the rookies more than the criminals, but what can you do?"
Brendon snorted, a faint smirk tugging at the edge of his muzzle. "Been scaring rookies since I walked in," he muttered dryly.
Robert chuckled, the sound low and warm. "I heard," he admitted, not unkindly. "Chief Tyson ain't subtle. Word travels fast."
Brendon's smirk faded, eyes darkening. "You got a problem with wolves, too?"
Robert's eyes glinted with something almost like amusement. "Not in the slightest," he replied smoothly. "Chief's got his reasons, but I judge by actions, not fur."
Brendon grunted, smoke curling lazily from his cigarette. "Fair enough."
"Good," Robert said, clapping a clawed hand on Brendon's shoulder with surprising ease. "Now c'mon—Baker's Alley won't wait."
---
Cab Conversation
The cab rattled softly over uneven asphalt, headlights sweeping through rain-slick streets. Brendon leaned back, gaze fixed out the window, cigarette glowing faintly in the gloom. Robert settled across from him, arms folded comfortably.
After a beat of silence, Robert spoke, voice steady. "So, you're wonderin' about my head, huh?"
Brendon snorted softly. "Figured you'd mention it when you wanted to."
Robert chuckled. "Fair point." His eyes glinted, thoughtful. "Hybrids like me—half-breeds, they call us—don't exactly get a warm welcome. Folks prefer things neat. Human or animal. Not… both."
Brendon's eyes flicked over, brow furrowing.
"Doesn't bother me," Robert continued with a shrug. "I figure if I work hard enough, prove myself, they'll come around."
Brendon's jaw tightened. "They won't," he muttered flatly.
Robert chuckled again. "Maybe. Maybe not. But I'd rather die tryin'." He glanced sidelong, eyes glinting. "Thanks, by the way."
Brendon raised a brow. "For?"
"Not lookin' at me like a freak."
Brendon huffed, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. "Been there," he replied, voice dry. "For… different reasons."
Robert's ears flicked forward, curiosity glinting. "Guess we've both got somethin' to prove, huh?"
Brendon snorted. "Maybe."
---
Baker's Alley
Baker's Alley reeked of oil and damp concrete, shadows pooling beneath cracked lampposts. The cab pulled up with a low rumble, tires splashing through shallow puddles. Brendon stepped out, cigarette still smoldering between his teeth, eyes narrowing against the gloom.
Robert's ears twitched, nose flaring slightly. "Trouble," he muttered.
Brendon caught it too—raised voices, a dull thud, muffled sobbing. His eyes snapped to the corner of the street, where two teenagers in dark hoodies loomed over a third—scrawny, barely fourteen, black human teenager streaked with dirt. The kid was curled defensively, hands shielding his head.
A growl rumbled in Brendon's chest. His cigarette hit the ground, crushed beneath a boot, and he moved without hesitation.
"Hey!" Brendon barked, voice cracking through the alley. The attackers flinched, eyes wide. One—the bigger of the two—swore under his breath, fists tightening.
Brendon was on them in two strides, claws glinting faintly. "Step back," he growled, eyes cold. The threat in his tone left no room for argument.
The kids bolted, sneakers slapping against the asphalt. Brendon snarled, eyes narrowing. "Robert—take the kid to the hospital," he snapped, already moving to follow.
Robert nodded sharply, dropping beside the injured boy. "Got it."
Brendon didn't wait for a reply. His claws scraped the concrete as he surged forward, ears pinned, eyes locked on the retreating figures. The hunt was on.