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The storage hallway behind the ballroom was dark, musty, and reeked of old barrels and spilled wine. It was the kind of place no guest would ever wander into—perfect for secrets and setups.
San stepped in first, coat buttoned, eyes sharp. Hyme trailed behind silently, slinking between the crates like a proper predator. His ears twitched with every creak.
"There," San whispered, nodding toward a figure at the far end.
The man in the cobalt blue mask leaned against a wall, arms crossed. "You came."
San kept a cautious distance. "You're the one who sent the note?"
"Obviously." The man glanced over his shoulder, then lowered his voice. "I don't have much time. Reiks is planning something—big. And it involves hybrids and humans alike. He's experimenting—"
A loud crash interrupted him.
Barrels tipped over. A gust of wind blew through the corridor unnaturally fast.
Then, silence.
San took a step forward. "Hey—"
The man in blue suddenly lurched forward—stabbed.
A black-cloaked figure emerged from the shadows, yanking the blade back and letting the informant crumple to the ground.
Hyme hissed.
The attacker looked up—face obscured by a raven mask.
San's fists clenched. "You bastard—!"
He lunged without hesitation, tackling the assassin into the wall. They struggled, grunting and trading blows. The attacker was fast—inhumanly so—but San had brawled with vampires, werewolves, and worse. He knew how to handle speed.
Hyme leapt into the fray next, claws extended. "That's my man you're trying to stab, jerkface!"
He slashed at the attacker's side—catching fabric but not flesh.
"Go for the mask!" San yelled.
Hyme obeyed, jumping onto the attacker's back and yanking at the mask. The figure snarled and elbowed Hyme hard—sending him flying into a crate with a painful thud.
"Hyme!" San shouted, distracted just long enough for the assassin to land a punch across his jaw.
San stumbled but didn't fall.
"I've had worse," he growled—and then, with a roar, drove his shoulder into the attacker's stomach, slamming them both into a stack of wine barrels.
Red liquid exploded everywhere—flooding the floor like a scene from a crime movie.
The attacker hissed, now dripping in red, and tossed something to the ground—a tiny crystal.
Smoke erupted instantly.
"Don't let him run—!" Hyme shouted, limping out of the crate.
But it was too late. By the time the smoke cleared, the attacker had vanished into thin air.
San stood there, panting, fists clenched, his jaw bruised and lip bleeding.
Hyme hurried over, grabbing his sleeve. "Are you okay?"
San wiped the blood off with his thumb. "I'm fine. You?"
Hyme winced. "I landed on my tail."
San gave a breathless laugh, despite everything. "Tough kitten."
They both turned toward the informant, who was still barely breathing.
Hyme knelt beside him. "We need a healer. Fast."
The man's eyes fluttered open just enough. "Don't trust… anyone close to Reiks… especially the silver-eyed hybrid…"
His eyes rolled back.
San cursed. "We need to move. Now."
Hyme nodded, his expression serious for once. "Let's drag him to the car. I'll call my dad's private medic."
As they lifted the bleeding man, Hyme whispered, "You smell like wine and testosterone."
"And you smell like danger and fur shampoo."
"Perfect match."
Despite the tension, San couldn't help but grin. The mystery was growing deeper, and the enemy was closing in—but one thing was clear:
They were in this together now.
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