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The night air bites, sharp with the scent of pine and damp earth. Monroe, a blur of frantic energy, scrambles over the chain-link fence, his denim snagging, a momentary hesitation before he drops to the other side. His breath hitches in his chest, raw and ragged. The forest floor, a tangled mess of roots and fallen leaves, rushes beneath his worn sneakers. He's running, pure, unadulterated flight, a primal instinct screaming in his veins. Behind him, the baying begins. A chorus of guttural barks, growing in intensity, closer.
Officer voices, gruff and urgent, pierce the quiet night. "Hey, they got something. Let them run!"
The words whip through the trees, carried on the wind, fueling Monroe's panic. He pushes harder, legs pumping, muscles screaming, his vision narrowed to the path ahead. The dogs, a relentless tide of pursuit, are gaining. Their panting, heavy and deliberate, echoes the frantic beat of his own heart.
Hank's voice, deep and commanding, cuts through the din. "They're close!"
Each syllable is a hammer blow against Monroe's eardrums. He can feel the heat of their breath, the snap of their jaws, almost taste the metallic tang of their hunger. A sudden, desperate surge of adrenaline floods his system. He can't outrun them, not anymore. Not like this. He skids to a halt, a sudden, jarring stop that throws his body off balance. He twists, pivots, his gaze locking onto the charging forms of the K-9s. Their eyes, beady and predatory, gleam in the faint moonlight. A growl, low and rumbling, starts in his chest, building, escalating, until it rips from his throat in a deafening, guttural roar.
It's not a human sound, not anymore. It's a sound from a deeper place, an ancient instinct, a primal declaration of dominance.
The dogs falter. Their barks dissolve into whimpers, their predatory snarls replaced by a terrified yelp. They turn, tails tucked, scrambling back into the darkness, a tide of fear sweeping them away from the source of such raw, untamed power. Monroe's chest heaves, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He’s still woged, his features a grotesque caricature of humanity, teeth bared, eyes glowing with an unholy light. The adrenaline still courses through him, making his limbs tremble. He takes a tentative step, then another, the echoes of his roar still reverberating in the quiet forest.
Suddenly, a heavy weight slams into him, sending him sprawling to the ground. The air rushes from his lungs in a painful whoosh. He’s disoriented, the world spinning. Above him, a face looms, silhouetted against the meager moonlight filtering through the canopy. Hank. His eyes, wide with a terror that mirrors the dogs', stare back at Monroe’s woged face. A silent scream seems to rip through the night. Monroe sees the fear, the utter disbelief, the stark realization dawning in Hank’s eyes. He sees the moment Hank's world shatters.
And then, as quickly as he appeared, Monroe scrambles to his feet, a dark phantom melting back into the shadows, leaving Hank gasping on the forest floor, staring at the empty space where a monster once stood. The silence that follows is thick, heavy, punctuated only by the distant, fading barks of the retreating dogs.
The back door of Monroe’s house creaks open, a mournful sound in the stillness of the pre-dawn hours. He slips inside, the cool air of the forest still clinging to his clothes, the scent of pine and damp earth still in his nostrils. His heart still pounds a frantic rhythm against his ribs, a drumbeat of residual fear and adrenaline. He finds Nick in the living room, a mug of what looks like lukewarm coffee clutched in his hands, his brow furrowed with concern. The soft glow of a single lamp casts long, dancing shadows across the walls. Nick looks up, his gaze immediately locking onto Monroe’s disheveled form.
"Hey, you okay?" Nick's voice is low, laced with genuine worry.
Monroe runs a hand through his already wild hair, trying to smooth it down, trying to appear nonchalant. "Yeah, I'm fine. I don't know about Hank." The words feel heavy on his tongue, each syllable a confession.
Nick sets his mug down with a soft clink. "What happened?"
Monroe sighs, the sound escaping him in a long, drawn-out breath. He paces a small circle in the cramped living room, the memory of Hank’s terrified face flashing before his eyes. "You know how I told you we can be seen when we want to be seen?" He pauses, searching for the right words, the casual explanation for something so utterly not casual. "Well, the dogs were on me, so I dealt with them, but, uh, I kind of bumped into Hank before I logged out."
Nick's eyes widen, a flicker of understanding, then dawning dread. "He saw you as a Blutbad?"
Monroe nods, the admission a bitter taste in his mouth. "Yeah, but only for a second, and I was wearing Larry's shirt? And..." He trails off, a sudden unease prickling at the back of his neck. A subtle shift in the air, a faint rustle of fabric. His eyes dart around the room, senses on high alert. Something is wrong. Very wrong. "And... Larry. Behind you!"
The warning is barely out of his mouth before a figure lunges from the shadows behind Nick. It’s Larry, his face contorted into a mask of pure anguish, his eyes wide and vacant. He grabs Nick from behind, a desperate, frantic grip. Nick stumbles forward, then quickly backs away, his hand instinctively going for his sidearm, but then he sees Larry’s face, the desperate plea in his eyes, and he hesitates.
Larry’s breath comes in harsh, rattling gasps. "Get it out! Get it out! Please."
His voice is a tortured whisper, a plea from the depths of his soul. His hands, trembling uncontrollably, claw at his neck. He tears open the collar of his shirt, exposing the pale skin beneath, then with a raw, guttural cry, he rips at his flesh. A small, metallic glint catches the light as he yanks something from his neck. It’s a device, small and intricate, wires trailing from it like severed nerves.
"I didn't mean to. I didn't want to. I tried." The words tumble out, a desperate confession, a lament of regret.
Larry’s eyes roll back in his head, his body swaying precariously. He slides down the wall, a lifeless sack of bones, crumpling to the floor in a heap. Monroe rushes forward, dropping to his knees beside Larry.
"Larry. Hey."
He presses his fingers against Larry's neck, searching for a pulse. Nothing. Larry’s body is still, unnervingly still. He looks up at Nick, his eyes wide with horror, then back at Larry. As if on cue, Larry’s features begin to shift, the woged form dissolving, receding, until the familiar human face of Larry returns, pale and slack in death.
"He's not breathing. I think he's dead." The words are barely a whisper, a stark, painful realization.
Nick stands over them, his face grim, jaw clenched. "I'm sorry, Monroe." The words are inadequate, a small comfort in the face of such sudden, brutal loss.
Monroe stares at Larry’s lifeless face, a profound shock settling over him. "What... What... what do we do?" His voice is raw, laced with disbelief.
Nick’s gaze sweeps the room, then lands on Monroe, a flicker of grim determination in his eyes. "We can't leave him here. I don't want you tied to this. We have to move the body." The decision is swift, pragmatic, born of necessity. Just as Nick finishes speaking, his phone buzzes, a jarring intrusion into the somber silence. He pulls it from his pocket, glances at the screen. "It's Hank."
Monroe’s head snaps up, his eyes wide with a fresh wave of panic. He looks like a deer caught in headlights. "Okay, I'll be quiet. I won't say anything." His voice is hushed, almost imperceptible, a promise of silence born of terror.
Nick nods, then brings the phone to his ear. "What's up, Hank?" His voice is carefully neutral, a practiced calm he doesn't feel.
Hank’s voice crackles through the phone, strained and disoriented. "Something strange is going on out here, man."
"Like what?" Nick asks, trying to keep his voice even, his gaze subtly shifting to Monroe, who is now hunched over Larry’s body, his face buried in his hands.
"I was out with the dogs. They found something, but it scared the hell out of them. I went to check and got hit." Hank’s voice is punctuated by the sound of heavy breathing, as if he’s still recovering from the impact.
Nick’s heart sinks. He knows. He knows exactly what happened. "You got hit? You know by what?"
"I don't know. But I tell you one thing... whoever or whatever I saw was moving fast. But it had to be the same guy. He was wearing that red shirt. I'm coming back to the precinct." The line goes dead.
Nick lowers the phone, his gaze meeting Monroe’s. The weight of their shared secret, the truth of what Hank saw, hangs heavy in the air between them.
The forest air is colder now, the pre-dawn chill biting at their exposed skin. The moon, a thin crescent, offers little light, forcing Nick and Monroe to rely on the beam of Nick’s flashlight as they navigate the dense undergrowth. They’re moving Larry’s body, a grim, arduous task. Larry’s limbs are stiff, uncooperative, a dead weight in their arms. The scent of pine and damp earth mingles with something else, something metallic and unsettling. Monroe, sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill, gestures to a small clearing.
"Okay. Right here. This is where the dogs caught up with me." He heaves, his muscles straining, as they gently lower Larry’s body to the ground. Larry lies still, his face pale and peaceful in the dim light, the device still clutched in his lifeless hand. "How's that? That look natural?" Monroe asks, his voice thick with a mix of exhaustion and morbid concern.
Nick steps back, surveying the scene, his gaze scanning the surrounding trees. "We should go." His voice is low, urgent, a warning. Every second they linger is a risk.
Monroe hesitates, his gaze fixed on Larry’s still form. A deep sigh escapes him, a sound of profound sadness. "Hang on a second. Look, if you say he killed people..." He trails off, the unspoken accusation hanging heavy in the air. "Okay, I'm not second-guessing." His voice is low, laced with a raw vulnerability. "But I just can't believe he'd do it. I know everybody has a trigger, and, believe me, it took me years to learn to, you know, adjust. I know Larry had some trouble, but this just doesn't make sense." He gestures vaguely to the device in Larry’s hand. "This whole thing..."
Nick kneels beside Larry, his brow furrowed in thought. His fingers, gloved, gently pry open Larry’s stiff hand, the device still clutched within. He examines it for a moment, then carefully closes Larry’s fingers around it again, as if in a final, macabre embrace.
"Maybe it had something to do with this thing he pulled out of his neck." He looks up at Monroe, his eyes grim. "When they find his body, I'll have forensics check it out."
The implication is clear: this device, whatever it is, will be the key to understanding Larry's death, and perhaps, his alleged crimes. Monroe nods slowly, a flicker of hope, however faint, in his eyes. He looks down at Larry, his expression softening, a profound sadness settling over him. He reaches out, his hand hovering over Larry’s chest, as if wanting to offer one last touch, one last connection.
"Larry, you fought a good fight." His voice is a low murmur, a private eulogy. "And for guys like us, it's a battle we fight every day of our lives. I don't know what went wrong for you, man, but we are gonna find out. Rest in peace, brother." He pauses, then adds, his voice imbued with a quiet reverence, "Alles hat ein ende, nur die Wurst hat zwei."
Nick looks at him, a quizzical expression on his face. He doesn't understand the words, but the tone, the heartfelt delivery, resonates deeply within him. "That sounded really beautiful. What does it mean?"
Monroe offers a faint, melancholic smile, a ghost of his usual playful self. "Everything has an end, only the sausage has two. My father used to say it—"