The Red Alpha

Cyrus tugged the sheets tighter and snuggled deeper beneath the blankets. A faint chill clung to the room, curling around the walls like a ghost that hadn't left. A weak beam of sunlight fell across his face, pale and flickering like it was afraid to touch him. He frowned, groggy and sore.

His eyelids felt like lead as he forced them open. They fluttered, blinking against the mild glow. The room around him came into focus slowly—a cluttered, cramped space filled with the mess of a life in limbo. Clothes from two days ago were strewn across the floor. Books lay open and forgotten, their pages curling at the edges. Dust motes danced lazily through the air, caught in the filtered sunlight. The faint scent of gun oil, sweat, and old tea lingered.

He groaned. "Just put your head on a pillow and it's already morning," he mumbled bitterly.

The bedside clock, balanced precariously atop a stack of paperbacks and field manuals, flashed 10:31 AM in dull red. Cyrus sighed and sat up slowly, shoulders stiff, every muscle aching. The wooden floor beneath his feet was cold. It creaked like it resented his weight.

His gaze wandered over the room again. What the hell had happened? Then it hit him.

Last night.

Gerald. Abby. The werewolf.

It came rushing back like a blow to the chest. The blood. The screaming. The werewolf's golden eyes, gleaming like fire. Abby flying through the air. Gerald—

He inhaled sharply, clenching his fists. He remembered carrying Abby in his arms, her body limp and broken. He had shouted for the hunter doctor until his throat ached. The old man had emerged, grumbling and exhausted but quick to act.

"Broken arm and fractured ribs," the doctor had said, his fingers surprisingly gentle as he worked.

"But she'll be fine. There's no need to worry."

Cyrus had nodded, but the worry never left. It clung to him now like a second skin.

The doctor had said Cyrus's ankle was sprained. And yet now—he stood, testing it. No pain. No stiffness. No limp.

"What the hell…" he muttered.

A pulse of unease ran through him.

"You will kill us all."

The werewolf's voice, ragged and bloody, echoed in his skull. A warning? A prophecy? A truth he hadn't yet faced?

He looked at his hands. The skin was unbroken, though he remembered the claws slicing through his jacket, the blood. He flexed his fingers. They trembled.

"What are you turning into?" he whispered to himself.

The room suddenly felt too quiet. Too small. The walls pressed in. His eyes swept over the familiar chaos: weapons neatly propped against the corner, the ashtray by the window, the faded photograph of his mother half-buried beneath a map.

He didn't want to feel this way. Lost. Fractured. But he couldn't stop the questions clawing at him from the inside.

His phone rang.

The shrill tone sliced through the silence like a blade. He startled, then scrambled through the bedclothes, checked his jeans, and finally fished the phone from a back pocket.

"Cyrus," he answered, voice thick with sleep and uncertainty.

"Thank God—" a familiar voice began, then paused. "Put her on the line."

The doctor.

There was a shuffle, a shift in breath. Then—

"Hey… Cyrus."

Abby.

He sat down again, the phone pressed to his ear like a lifeline.

"I—thank goodness you're okay," she said, her voice soft, threaded with pain.

"How are you holding up?" he asked gently, swallowing the lump in his throat.

"I'm hurting," she admitted. "But I'll live. Doc says I owe that to you. So… thanks. I mean it."

There was a pause. A catch in her breath.

He closed his eyes, picturing her in the dim little clinic room, wrapped in bandages, stubbornly refusing to look weak. The thought made something twist in his chest.

"You don't owe me anything," he said quietly. "You'd have done the same."

Another pause.

"Cyrus?"

"Yeah."

"Did… did Gerald—"

"Don't." The word escaped too fast, too sharp. He regretted it instantly.

"I need to know."

He stared at the floor. How could he say it? That he hadn't tried hard enough? That he could've saved Gerald if he'd been faster—or maybe if he hadn't wanted to wait. Was it guilt? Or relief masked as grief?

His voice cracked when he finally answered.

"Gerald's gone, Abby. The werewolf got him."

A long silence. Then—

A sob. Small. Muffled. Like she was trying to hide it.

He didn't speak. He didn't know how.

She was crying, and the sound gutted him. Not because Gerald was gone. But because she was hurting.

"I'm… sorry," he managed, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I thought maybe… maybe he made it," she said, breath hitching.

"I know."

She sniffled. "He was dumb. Brave, but dumb."

He gave a dry laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah. That's one way to put it."

More silence.

"Will you check in?" she asked. "I just… I don't want to be alone in this."

"I will," he said. "Soon."

"Okay."

She hung up.

He didn't move. The phone dropped from his hand onto the bed.

He exhaled, long and slow.

Not guilt. Not really.

But something colder.

He stood, the weight of her pain lingering in the air like smoke.

He didn't know what he was anymore. But he knew this much: whatever was growing inside him, whatever had awakened—it was just getting started.

And that scared him more than any werewolf ever could.

He decided he'd visit the underground broker at the Chinese book shop. The bastard had almost sent him to his death.

.....................................

The Victoria Town air hung thick and heavy that afternoon. The sun blazed mercilessly above, baking the roads until they shimmered. Heat rolled off the concrete in waves, distorting the horizon. Yet, despite the oppressive warmth, the streets bustled. People moved like ants, ignoring the sweat on their brows and the heat clinging to their clothes.

Cyrus revved his cruiser motorbike and pulled up in front of a battered old bookstore. The red lightbox above the door was cracked and half-lit, the dust on the windows so thick it dulled the sun. He parked the bike with a rumble, kicked the stand down, and swung off.

A small brass bell tinkled above the door as he stepped inside. Instantly, the temperature dropped. The cool air inside was a stark contrast to the furnace outside. It was quiet, calm. The heavy scent of parchment and old ink filled his nostrils. Rows of aged books lined the walls like relics in a tomb. Ledgers, scrolls, grimoires—every inch of shelf space was filled.

Behind the front counter stood a skinny boy in oversized glasses. His black shirt hung off his narrow shoulders. He looked up slowly.

"Ugh, Mav!" Cyrus called, sliding his shades up into his hair.

"Cyrus," the boy replied flatly, barely looking up.

Cyrus scowled. "He doesn't like me," he muttered under his breath, then added louder, "Well, I don't like your face either."

"Beg your pardon, sir?" Mav said with raised brows.

"Never mind, Mav. Is Mr. Chung in?"

"Yes. He's in the back."

"Thanks, champ," Cyrus said with a fake grin and sauntered off.

He headed toward the back of the store, past rows of dusty volumes. At the farthest wall, he found the last bookshelf. He scanned the spines with a practiced eye, then reached for one in particular—Lycanthropy and Lunar Cycles.

Click.

The wall hissed softly as the shelf disengaged, swinging open like a hidden door. Darkness loomed beyond.

"Fucking genius," Cyrus grinned.

He stepped into the passage, letting the shelf close behind him. The temperature dropped further. The wooden floors gave way to stone, and the walls narrowed. Only faint overhead lights guided his path. His boots echoed against the stone as he moved toward the steel door at the end.

He knocked.

"Six-seven-five?" a hoarse voice called.

"One-five-four," Cyrus answered.

The door buzzed, then swung open.

He entered a wide, dimly lit room. Fluorescent spotlights hummed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the walls. It felt more like a laboratory than a broker's den. Wolf trophies—mounted heads, claws, pelts—decorated the space. Rows of jars displayed yellowing werewolf fangs and strange bones.

Cyrus' eyes flicked across the macabre gallery. No matter how many times he came here, it still gave him a strange sense of awe.

"Ugh, Cyrus, my favorite werewolf hunter!" a familiar voice boomed.

Behind a cluttered desk sat a stout man in a rumpled gray suit, his hair tinted a dubious brown, jaw square, and mustache perfectly groomed.

"Chung, you half-assed piece of shit," Cyrus barked.

Mr. Chung held up his hands. "Now, Cyrus—no need for drama."

Cyrus' eyes narrowed, anger flashing like lightning. "What the hell did you send us into, you devil-spawned snake?"

Chung blinked. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't play dumb. I'm talking about yesterday's job. That weren't no ordinary mutt. That werewolf was old. Experienced. Did you know?"

"I swear I didn't!" Chung said, shaking his head vigorously. "I wouldn't send you into a death trap. You know me."

"I could've died, Chung."

"But you didn't," Chung pointed out, gesturing at him. "You're standing here, full of fire."

"Abby's hurt. She nearly died. And Gerald…" Cyrus' voice cracked. "Gerald didn't make it."

Chung's expression shifted. A flicker of genuine concern crossed his face.

"Damn," he muttered. "I didn't know. Sit, Cyrus. Please."

Cyrus hesitated, then sat heavily. The fury was still in his eyes, but it was cooling. Slowly.

"I'll pour us something strong," Chung said, pulling out two glasses.

"I'm a gin man now," Cyrus said coldly.

Chung chuckled, pouring scotch anyway. "Since when?"

"Since today."

The two men clinked glasses and stared at each other. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. Then Chung spoke.

"You and Gerald—were you close?"

"No. Not even a little."

"Then why do you sound like you care?"

"It's not about him," Cyrus said, his voice quieter now. "It's about Abby. She's hurting. That makes me care."

Chung nodded slowly. "To the living, then?"

Cyrus raised his glass after a moment's pause. "To the living."

They drank.

The tension thinned. The edge in Cyrus' posture relaxed. The weight of the hunt, the bloodshed, began to fade, just a little.

"So," Chung said, leaning forward, "what did you bring me this time?"

Cyrus reached into his jacket and pulled out a small cloth pouch. He spilled its contents onto the desk. A pair of yellowed, serrated werewolf fangs gleamed in the light.

"From the mutt that killed Gerald. Worth something?"

Chung picked them up carefully, inspecting them like diamonds.

"Twenty-five hundred."

Cyrus scoffed. "Don't insult me, Chung. I nearly died. Abby's doctor isn't cheap. Five grand."

"Thirty-five hundred."

"Four-five."

Chung grunted. "Fine. Deal."

He counted out the bills and handed them over. Cyrus slid the cash into his coat.

As he stood to leave, Chung raised a finger.

"Before you go… there's a new job."

Cyrus paused, one brow raised.

"Girl came in this morning," Chung said. "Beautiful. Moved like a cat. Even had cat eyes. Said she was a Hunter Scout. Tracked an omega to an abandoned house north of town."

Cyrus' eyes sparked. "An omega?"

Chung nodded. "She said it's holed up out there. Dangerous. You interested?"

"Hell yeah."

"You need a new team?"

"Nope. I'm flying solo."

"Going alone's suicide, Cyrus. You know that."

Cyrus smirked as he headed for the door. "Send me the details. There's something I want to try. Something I can't let anyone see."

He opened the door and paused. "It's a new resource. One I recently tapped into."

Then he vanished into the light.

And Mr. Chung, for the first time in a long while, felt a chill down his spine.