The Hunters

Cold night air bit like iron.

Brendon's breath billowed, ragged and hot, as he tore through the maze of alleyways. Shadows stretched long and distorted, clinging to the cracked brick walls and splintered fences. Ten minutes—ten minutes of weaving through garbage-strewn paths, vaulted fences, and narrow cuts between buildings. His paws pounded against wet asphalt, claws scraping, red eyes narrowed and locked on the figures ahead.

The two teenagers stumbled, curses spilling between gasps, sneakers slapping erratically. The taller one—a fox with ragged ears—glanced back, panic wild in his eyes. His companion, a scrawny weasel with greasy fur and a stained hoodie, spat a curse, teeth bared.

"Keep runnin', idiot!" the weasel snapped, shoving the fox forward.

Brendon's snarl echoed, feral and guttural, cutting through the night. The fox yelped, tripping over a pile of discarded crates, and bolted down a side path. The weasel hesitated—just for a heartbeat—eyes darting. Then, with a frustrated hiss, he lunged left, vanishing into the dark.

Brendon skidded to a halt at the fork, ears pinned, eyes flicking between paths. The fox's footsteps faded fast, erratic, terrified. The weasel's were steadier—sharp and purposeful.

Brendon growled low, choosing the left path without hesitation. The coward could wait.

---

Cornered

The weasel's path wound tighter, alleyways narrowing until they barely allowed room to breathe. Trash cans overflowed, stinking of rot and oil. Somewhere nearby, a cat screeched, its eyes gleaming briefly in the dark.

Brendon's ears pricked forward, claws flexing. The weasel's scent was stronger here—fear-sour and fresh.

Ahead, a chain-link fence loomed, glinting faintly in the dim light. The weasel skidded to a halt, eyes wide and wild, muttering curses under his breath. His gaze snapped back, and his fur bristled when he spotted Brendon advancing, slow and deliberate, eyes gleaming red.

"Get the hell away from me!" the weasel spat, stumbling back. "You don't— you don't know who you're messin' with!" His voice was a snarl, but the tremor behind it was impossible to miss.

Brendon's lip curled, showing a flash of fang. "Oh, I'm terrified," he drawled, claws clicking against the concrete with each step. "So why're you shaking?"

The weasel's eyes narrowed. He sucked in a breath, fingers twitching towards the pocket of his hoodie. Brendon caught the movement, lunging forward with a snarl.

"Shit—!" the weasel yelped, twisting to bolt, but Brendon was faster. A paw slammed into his shoulder, claws digging in just enough to sting. The weasel hissed, writhing, but Brendon's grip was iron.

"Let me go, you damn mutt!" the weasel spat, kicking out wildly. "Do you have any idea who I work for? My boss—he'll have your head on a pike for this!"

Brendon's eyes narrowed to slits. "Oh, really?" he growled, voice low and frigid. "Then tell me."

The weasel's sneer faltered, eyes darting. "Th-The Hunters," he stammered. "You— you really don't know who you're dealin' with, huh? They'll pay you to let me go. Hell, they'll—"

Brendon cut him off with a scoff, hauling him up by the scruff. "I don't fucking care who you work for," he snapped, voice a guttural snarl. "Or what background you have. You're coming in for assault."

The weasel paled, eyes wide. "You— you can't do this! They'll—"

"Save it," Brendon growled, shoving him forward. "Start walkin'."

---

The Station

The police station buzzed with tension, officers muttering in clusters, eyes flicking nervously towards the main doors every few seconds. The air was stale with coffee and sweat, fluorescent lights casting everything in a harsh, sterile glare.

Brendon shoved the weasel through the entrance, claws still dug firmly into his shoulder. The punk was still spitting curses, voice cracking between threats and frantic pleas. Brendon's ears twitched, but he barely spared the noise a growl.

"Put me down, you damn flea-ridden—!"

Brendon's claws tightened, just enough to shut him up. The front desk officer—a grey-furred badger—stiffened at the sight, eyes darting to the weasel's gang insignia. He opened his mouth, but a voice—deep and sharp—cut in first.

"What the hell is this?"

Brendon's gaze flicked up, ears flattening. Chief Victor Tyson strode forward, eyes dark and jaw clenched, two of his men trailing close behind. His trench coat flared with each step, polished shoes clicking harshly against the tiles.

"Arrest," Brendon replied flatly, shoving the weasel towards a nearby officer. "Physical assault charges."

Tyson's eyes flashed. "Do you have any idea what you just did?" he snapped, voice rising. "That kid's connected to The Hunters!"

Brendon's eyes narrowed, but he didn't flinch. "Don't care," he bit back. "He was beatin' a kid bloody. He comes in."

"You should care!" Tyson snarled, tone ice-cold. "We're in the middle of a murder investigation—one that's already got the media breathing down our necks—and you arrest a Hunter's grunt?" He scoffed, eyes glinting. "We can't handle two goddamn messes at once!"

Brendon growled low in his throat, fur bristling. "So you want me to let him go?"

Tyson's jaw tightened. "I want you to use your head!" he snapped, tone a whipcrack. "Or do you not get how things work here, Sheriff?"

Brendon bared his fangs, a low snarl bubbling in his chest. "Enlighten me," he drawled darkly.

Tyson took a step forward, eyes blazing. "You—"

"Sheriff."

The tension snapped, broken by Robert's steady voice. Brendon's ear flicked, eyes shifting to find the dog hybrid striding in, expression grim but calm. A faint scent of antiseptic clung to him.

"The kid's safe," Robert reported, meeting Brendon's eyes. "Doctors patched him up. He's shaken, but he'll make it."

Brendon exhaled, shoulders easing a fraction. "Good," he muttered, claws flexing and relaxing.

Tyson scoffed, raking a hand through his hair. "You're missing the point," he snapped, eyes glinting. "The media's already tearing us apart over that dead kid. Now we've got a Hunter's grunt in custody? Fantastic."

Brendon's eyes narrowed. "Then let them," he growled, voice a rough snarl. "I didn't sign up to play nice with gangs."

Tyson's gaze darkened, lips peeling back. "We'll see what the mayor has to say about that," he bit out coldly, coat snapping as he turned on his heel.

Brendon's jaw clenched, teeth grinding. Robert laid a paw on his shoulder, grip firm but careful.

"Let him stew," Robert muttered lowly. "He's barkin' for the sake of it. You did good."

Brendon huffed, a low growl rumbling in his chest. "Hope you're right," he muttered, eyes flicking to the weasel, now cuffed and glaring daggers.