CHAP: 3 The Marked Path

The next few days passed in a haze of adrenaline and confusion. Dax couldn't shake the feeling that the city had become a maze, every corner hiding some new threat. Every time he thought he had a handle on what was happening, the rules would change. It wasn't just about missing pets anymore—it was about something deeper. Something far darker.

The coyote had become a constant presence. No matter where Dax went, the creature was there. Watching. Waiting. It was as if it had a purpose—a goal that had yet to fully reveal itself. At night, it would stand just outside his office window, staring at him with those predatory amber eyes. During the day, it was always a step behind, just out of sight, but never out of mind.

Dax had done what he could to dig deeper into the symbols Hale had shown him. He'd visited the city's ancient library, gone through archives of occult texts, but so far, nothing. The symbols weren't familiar. Nothing about them felt ancient. It felt… new. A twisted, modern ritual that had grown from something far older.

But no answers were forthcoming. The more he searched, the more the city seemed to close in on him, as if it were holding its breath. Every face he passed seemed like it was hiding something. Every shadow, an omen. It was only a matter of time before the next piece of the puzzle fell into place.

His office phone rang late one evening. It was Hale.

"I've got something," Hale's voice crackled over the line, sounding like he was speaking through a thick layer of static. "Meet me at the old warehouse on 5th. Don't bring anyone."

The call ended before Dax could ask any questions. Something about the urgency in Hale's tone made Dax's heart race. The detective wasn't one for theatrics, and this kind of secrecy didn't sit well with him.

He grabbed his jacket, stepped out into the dimming streets, and made his way toward 5th Avenue. The rain had started again, this time in a light, misty drizzle that clung to the city's cold concrete bones. The atmosphere was suffocating, thick with the promise of something more.

When Dax reached the warehouse, it was exactly what he had expected. An old, abandoned structure, broken windows, rusted doors, and a decaying sign that had long lost its meaning. The kind of place where people disappeared without a trace.

Dax slipped through the gap in the fence, moving quietly, his senses on high alert. He didn't know what he was walking into, but he had a feeling he wasn't alone. The air felt charged, like static before a storm.

He made his way toward the entrance and stopped in the shadows, watching the darkened windows for any signs of movement. The coyote wasn't around, but something in Dax's gut told him that whatever was happening tonight would change everything.

A figure appeared in the doorway. It was Hale, his figure partially obscured by the darkness. Dax stepped forward.

"You sure about this, Marcus?" Dax's voice was low, barely audible over the distant hum of city traffic. "This place is a graveyard for bad decisions."

Hale didn't answer right away. Instead, he waved Dax inside, pulling him out of the open. They ducked into the warehouse, and Dax's eyes slowly adjusted to the low light. The space was massive, filled with rotting crates and broken pallets. But it wasn't the abandoned setting that caught his attention—it was the people.

There were six of them, standing in a loose circle near the far wall. They were all wearing dark cloaks, their faces hidden in the shadows. Their presence sent an icy chill down Dax's spine. They weren't here by accident. They were waiting.

The man standing closest to the group turned as Dax and Hale approached. His eyes gleamed with a predatory gleam, and his voice was smooth, too smooth, like he was savoring every word.

"I see the detective has brought a guest," the man said, his smile twisting into something sinister. "How… quaint."

Hale shot Dax a look, signaling for him to keep his distance. But it was too late for that. The moment the man spoke, something in Dax's mind clicked. The symbols, the wolf, the coyote—all of it came together in one dark thought.

"We need answers," Dax said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "And we're done playing games."

The man chuckled, stepping forward. The cloak shifted as he moved, and Dax could make out tattoos snaking down his arms—dark, intricate designs that seemed to move under the skin. The symbols from the bodies. This was the group Hale had mentioned. The people who played with things they didn't understand.

"You're looking for something, detective," the man said, his voice dripping with mockery. "But you're too late. This city is already ours."

Dax's blood ran cold. He knew those words—the way they tasted in the air like a prophecy. This wasn't some rogue cult. This was something far older. Something woven into the very fabric of the city itself. They were trying to claim it.

"What do you want with the city?" Dax asked, his voice tight, barely concealing his fury. "What do you want with the people here?"

The man's grin widened, his teeth sharp in the dim light. "We want what's ours. And it's only a matter of time before everyone else realizes it."

The air in the warehouse seemed to thicken as the others in the group stepped forward, their movements deliberate. They weren't just standing there—they were waiting for something. For a signal. For the moment to act.

Before Dax could make another move, a low growl echoed from the shadows. It was soft at first, then louder, growing into a feral snarl that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

The coyote appeared.

This time, it wasn't alone. Several others emerged from the darkness, their eyes glowing faintly, their bodies moving with a supernatural grace. Dax's breath caught in his throat as he recognized them—these weren't just wild animals. These were the same creatures he'd seen in the park, the ones that had been watching him.

The man at the front of the group raised his hands in a mock gesture of surrender. "We've been expecting you, detective."

The words hung in the air like a death sentence. It was clear now—this wasn't just about animal attacks. This was about control. The city was nothing but a battleground, and these people were playing a dangerous game. They had the power to shape it into something new, something darker.

Dax's hand instinctively went to his sidearm, but the man's next words stopped him cold.

"Don't bother," the man said, his voice low. "You won't be able to fight what's coming. But you're welcome to try."

Dax's heart pounded in his chest as he surveyed the scene. The coyote, the cloaked figures, the tension in the air—it was all leading to something. Something that would change the course of his life forever.

And for the first time since the madness began, Dax wasn't sure if he was prepared for it.

The city was still soaking wet from the afternoon's rain, the pavement glistening under the weak glow of streetlights. Dax's boots splashed through the puddles as he made his way to the old warehouse on 5th Avenue. Every step he took seemed to echo through the empty streets, the quiet broken only by the hum of traffic in the distance. The uneasy feeling that had settled in his gut wasn't going away, no matter how many times he tried to shake it off.

Hale's call had been curt, his tone tight. When a guy like Marcus Hale told you to meet him at an abandoned warehouse late at night, the last thing you did was ask questions. Dax wasn't sure what the detective had gotten himself mixed up in, but he knew one thing for certain: it was bigger than anything he'd handled before.

As he approached the dilapidated building, a sinking feeling crawled up his spine. The warehouse looked like something straight out of a nightmare, a hulking mass of rusted steel and crumbling brick. A place where things went to disappear. The type of place where people left and didn't come back.

Dax checked his gun at his side, more out of habit than necessity, and pulled his coat tighter around him, the rain now a fine mist that clung to his skin. The city was a constant backdrop of noise, but out here, in the middle of nowhere, everything felt silent, too silent.

He slipped through the hole in the chain-link fence, his senses on high alert. As he moved toward the warehouse's main entrance, he couldn't shake the sensation that someone—or something—was watching him. The air felt too still, as though the entire city was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

When Dax reached the entrance, the sound of a door creaking open broke the silence. Hale's silhouette appeared, framed by the dim light spilling from the inside of the warehouse. The detective's face was tight, his expression unreadable.

"Get inside," Hale muttered, not bothering with pleasantries. "We need to talk."

Dax stepped into the warehouse, immediately feeling the temperature drop. The interior was cavernous, the air thick with the scent of dust and old wood. Broken crates and scattered debris littered the floor, but it wasn't the state of the warehouse that grabbed Dax's attention—it was the group standing near the far wall.

There were six of them, cloaked in black, their faces obscured by hoods. Their movements were slow, deliberate, as though they were waiting for something. Dax felt the hairs on his neck rise at the sight of them. They weren't just people—they were something else. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

Hale walked ahead, keeping his distance from the group. "These are the people I was telling you about," he said, his voice low, tense. "They're the ones behind the deaths. The symbols. The whole damn thing."

The man standing at the front of the group stepped forward. He was tall, his cloak flowing around him like the dark waters of a river. His eyes glinted in the low light, an unsettling yellow-green that seemed to pierce straight through Dax.

"I see the detective has brought a guest," the man said, his voice smooth, laced with an almost mocking amusement. He took a step closer, the shadows seeming to twist around him. "How… quaint."

Dax sized him up, his hand instinctively drifting toward his gun. This wasn't just some cult leader or wannabe gangster. This man exuded power, a dangerous charisma that made the hairs on the back of Dax's neck prickle.

The man's eyes flickered over Dax with a mix of disdain and curiosity, then he smiled—a slow, deliberate thing that made the room feel even colder. "Tell me, detective, are you still pretending you have control over this city? Over what's to come?"

Dax didn't answer immediately. His eyes flicked to the others in the circle—each one more unnerving than the last. The women and men cloaked in black stood still, their hands folded calmly in front of them. But it was the symbols on their skin that made Dax's pulse quicken. Tattoos, dark and intricate, snaked up their arms, wrapping around their necks, and down their spines. The same symbols he had seen carved into the bodies in the park.

"What the hell is this?" Dax's voice was tight, each word a thread of controlled anger. "Who are you people?"

The man laughed softly, a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the floor. "You already know. Deep down, you've known this whole time. You just refuse to accept it."

The words hung in the air like a challenge. Dax's mind raced, trying to make sense of it all. The symbols. The killings. The wolves. Everything seemed to point to this group. And yet… something was still off.

"I'm not here for riddles," Dax growled. "What do you want with this city? With the people here?"

"Want?" The man tilted his head, as if the question were beneath him. "We don't want anything. What's coming is inevitable, detective. The city doesn't belong to the weak, to the human fools who think they rule it. It never did. The wolves… the beasts… they are the true rulers of this place, and we are the ones who will bring it back to its rightful state."

Dax felt his heart rate pick up. Wolves? He knew they weren't talking about animals anymore.

"Don't you get it?" The man took a step closer. "The city is changing. It's always been changing, but now the time has come for it to shift completely. And we'll be the ones to shape it. The humans who remain will either bow down to us—or they'll be eradicated."

The weight of the words hung in the air, suffocating, as though they were a prophecy, one that had already been written in the dark corners of the city. Dax's mind raced. A shifter clan? A group of rogue werewolves? No. This wasn't just some supernatural power grab. This was something… older. Something tied to the very essence of the city itself.

Before Dax could respond, the growl that had been building in the shadows finally broke through the silence. It was low at first, almost like the rumble of thunder in the distance. But it wasn't thunder. It was something far more primal.

From the darkest corner of the warehouse, the coyote appeared. Dax's breath caught in his throat. The creature's amber eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, its body sleek and lithe, its coat a mixture of browns and blacks that seemed to shimmer unnaturally in the shadows. And it wasn't alone.

More wolves—more creatures—emerged from the shadows. Larger than any wolf Dax had ever seen, their eyes burning with an eerie intelligence. These weren't just animals. These were creatures of power, of the supernatural. And they were surrounding him.

The man, the leader of the group, smiled again, this time with a knowing glint in his eyes. "You see, detective, the city is already ours. You're just too blind to realize it yet. But you will. Soon."

Dax's heart raced. The wolves were circling, their eyes never leaving him, and the man's words sank deeper, each one like a knife carving out his disbelief.

But Dax wasn't done yet. Not by a long shot.

His hand hovered over his gun, ready for anything. There was no way out of this without a fight, and if these people thought they were going to control the city, they had another thing coming.

"We'll see about that," Dax muttered under his breath, his fingers tightening on the grip of his gun.