Javier Garcia's Point of View
Later that day…
Javi followed the plan exactly as they'd discussed. He watched. He observed. He blended into the background as much as a suspicious outsider could.
Even then, the people were still giving him the brutal cold shoulder—every single one of them.
He positioned himself in a corner of the main room, arms crossed defensively across his chest, trying to look casual despite feeling anything but. His internal mantra repeated on endless loop:
"Ignore them, ignore them, ignore them..."
He said it again and again like a protective spell, trying to make himself believe it.
But ignoring the hostile stares was easier said than done. The judgmental looks burned into his skin like physical touches. The whispers scraped against his ears like nails on chalkboard.
He kept catching fragments of conversations—none of them good:
"...still here, can you believe it..."
"...nerve of these kids..."
"...waiting for them to steal something..."
Javi sighed heavily and forced himself to lean casually against the wall, attempting to project nonchalance he absolutely didn't feel.
But internally? It was taking every ounce of his considerable willpower not to march over and demand they actually talk to him instead of making assumptions.
His hands came up to rest under his chin thoughtfully as he muttered to himself: "This place has to have some kind of mini blueprint. A map. Floor plans. Something useful."
He couldn't just wander blindly. He needed to understand the layout—where Argent's office was, where private areas existed, how the building connected, potential escape routes if things went sideways.
Information was power. And right now, he had depressingly little of either.
Pushing himself off the wall with renewed purpose, he started walking around with deliberate casualness—pretending to inspect the facility with tourist-like curiosity while actually searching for any hints, maps, organizational charts, anything that could help.
He strolled past bulletin boards cluttered with notices—event schedules, house rules, lost-and-found postings, volunteer sign-up sheets—but nothing resembling actual facility information.
Then, near the kitchen entrance where the lighting was dimmer, he spotted it: an older corkboard partially hidden behind a filing cabinet. And pinned to it was a faded piece of paper with the promising title: "Shelter Layout - Staff Only."
Jackpot.
He took a casual step closer, trying to look like he was just wandering aimlessly—
Suddenly, a sharp clearing of throat shattered his focus like glass.
"And what the hell do you think you're doing, boy?"
Javi spun around to find the elderly man from breakfast—the one who'd loudly proclaimed they'd "bring trouble." His expression was stern as carved granite, his eyebrows raised in obvious accusation, his entire posture radiating territorial aggression.
Javi plastered on his most innocent, charming smile—the one that usually got him out of trouble. "Oh! Hey there, sir. Um... just checking out the place, you know? Trying to get familiar with the layout. New here and all."
The words came out slightly too fast, slightly too bright. Not his best work.
The old man's eyes narrowed dangerously. He crossed his arms with deliberate slowness. "Shouldn't you be staying in one designated corner like a good little guest? Behaving yourself? Not snooping around restricted areas?"
Each word carried weight, accusation, threat.
Javi grimaced internally, caught between his instinct to argue and his tactical need to avoid creating more problems. "I was just... exploring? Getting my bearings? No harm in that, right? Just trying to understand where things are so I don't, you know, accidentally wander somewhere I shouldn't."
The irony of that statement while literally doing exactly that wasn't lost on him.
The man stepped closer—invasion of personal space as intimidation tactic. "This area is completely off-limits to outsiders. That means you."
Javi gestured vaguely at the faded map. "Even just looking at the layout? I mean, it's just a map. Not exactly state secrets, right?"
His attempt at humor fell completely flat.
The old man's scowl deepened into something almost frightening. "Especially the layout. This ain't a damn tourist attraction, boy. This is people's home. You don't get to just wander around like you own the place."
Javi held up both hands in immediate surrender, backing up several steps. "Alright, alright! Message received loud and clear. I was just trying to learn the rules, understand the system—"
"Rules?" The man's laugh was harsh, bitter. "Here's your rules: Stay exactly where you're put. Don't snoop around. Don't ask questions. Don't make trouble. And be grateful we're still allowing you to stay here at all instead of throwing you out on the street where you probably belong."
The casual cruelty of that last statement hit harder than Javi expected.
He clenched his jaw so hard it hurt, but forced himself to nod with false compliance. "Got it, sir. Crystal clear. Won't happen again."
Liar, his brain supplied helpfully. It'll definitely happen again. Just more carefully next time.
As the man walked away, muttering darkly under his breath about "kids these days" and "no respect," Javi exhaled sharply through his nose.
He glanced back at the map—now firmly out of reach, guarded by hostile territory.
"Geezer," he muttered venomously under his breath, then immediately felt guilty for it.
The guy was just protective of his space. His home. Nothing wrong with that, technically.
Didn't make it less frustrating though.
He shook his head in pure frustration, talking to himself again because there was literally nobody else who'd listen: "Seriously? Don't tell me the only thing I'm allowed to do here is breathe. Maybe I need written permission for that too."
Another hour passed. Then another.
Javi continued his observation, finding different vantage points, rotating through positions to avoid looking too obviously surveillant. He'd already spent probably three or four hours just watching the crowd.
And despite everything—despite the hostility, despite being the designated outsider—he couldn't help but feel something watching them all together.
Warmth. Community. Family.
And beneath that... jealousy. Sharp and bitter and impossible to ignore.
"They really treat each other like family here," he muttered to himself, voice barely audible. "Like actual, genuine family. Not just people who happen to live in the same building."
His throat tightened unexpectedly. "I miss mine too. God, I miss them so much."
The admission came out more bitter and longing than he'd intended. More honest than he usually allowed himself to be.
He remembered everything in that moment—every memory flooding back with painful clarity.
When Javi glanced at the communal dining area where people were gathering for lunch, sharing food, laughing at inside jokes, he saw—
His father. Javier García Sr., standing at their old stove, teaching him how to properly season chicken, how to know when oil was hot enough, how cooking was an art form that required both precision and intuition.
His father's voice, warm and slightly sardonic, the way it got when delivering life advice disguised as cooking instructions: "Stay hopeful, mijo. Even when things look impossible. Especially then. Everything will work out eventually. It always does."
Javi rolled his eyes with fond sarcasm, responding to the memory as if his father could actually hear him: "Yeah, Papa. As you can clearly see, I'm having a fantastic time here. Really working out great. Totally hopeful and not at all desperate."
When Javi saw a woman across the room currently scolding a group of kids for being too actively naughty—doing pranks, tracking mud inside, general childhood chaos—he remembered—
His mother. Alyana García, who somehow managed to be simultaneously the cockiest, bravest, grumpiest person in any room while also being fiercely protective and endlessly patient.
She loved to scold their entire chaotic household—especially when Javi, Scott, and Stiles got into their inevitable mischief. But underneath the sharp words was infinite love.
Her voice, patient despite exasperation: "There's always light at the end of the tunnel, Javi. Always. You just have to have patience. Wait for the right moment. Don't force things before they're ready."
Javi's response to the memory was quieter, more genuine: "Patience, huh? Don't worry, Mama. I've got lots of that now. More than I ever wanted. I'm being so patient. You'd be proud."
Or maybe disappointed I got into this mess in the first place, his brain added unhelpfully.
And finally, when he saw Olivia across the room—gently comforting a crying child, wiping tears, speaking in soothing tones—he remembered—
His older sister.
Jane García. Standing in their doorway with her arms perpetually crossed, pretending to be annoyed by his existence but secretly smiling while watching whatever chaos he was creating.
Jane, who always acted like she wasn't emotional about anything. Who would shove him—not hard, but enough to make her point—and say dismissively: "Don't get soft on me, little bro. Garcías don't do tears. We do solutions."
But she was always—always—the first one to defend him when anyone else tried to criticize or threaten him.
Javi's response to this memory was almost confrontational, as if she were standing right there: "I ain't getting soft, you stupid bug hag. I'm observing them. Doing my job. Being professional. See? Not soft at all."
Then the truth hit him with devastating force.
Sudden realization. Sudden grief.
He could feel tears threatening—that horrible burning sensation behind his eyes, that tightness in his throat that meant emotions were about to betray him publicly.
No. Not here. Not now. Not when people are already watching for weakness.
He couldn't afford to break down. Not when he was on a mission.
Not when Rukawa was counting on him. Not when showing vulnerability would just confirm everyone's worst assumptions about him being weak, unstable, untrustworthy.
"Can't afford to mess this up, Javi," he whispered harshly to himself, forcing the emotions down through pure willpower. "Not when you're on an actual mission. Not when Rukawa is depending on you. Not when people need you to not be a disaster for once."
He missed them. God, he missed them so much it physically hurt—like an old wound reopening, like broken bones that never properly healed aching in cold weather.
But now wasn't the time for grief. For processing. For dealing with trauma.
Now was the time for work.
He understood that intellectually, even if his heart violently disagreed.
So instead of crying—instead of giving in to the overwhelming need to just break down—he shook his head sharply. Acknowledged the emotions existed. Validated them briefly.
Then deliberately, consciously refocused.
"Make them proud," he muttered with fierce determination. "I'll make them all proud. That's what matters. That's what I can actually control."
Papa's hope. Mama's patience. Jane's strength.
I've got all of it. I can do this.
As day slowly turned to evening, Javi remained vigilantly on the lookout.
He tried every trick he knew to blend into the background—leaning casually against different walls, sitting on various benches, pretending to read a donated book he wasn't actually processing, anything to look innocuous and unthreatening.
But the whispers continued relentlessly:
"Look at that kid, acting like nothing happened. Like he belongs here."
"That's what happens when you don't know shame. No self-awareness."
"Let's just wait for him to mess up. And trust me, he will. They always do."
Each comment was a small cut. Not deep enough to kill, but enough to bleed slowly.
He stole glances at people around him, listening with trained intensity for any conversation that might provide valuable intelligence—
"What are you looking at, kid?"
Javi jumped slightly, caught staring. "M-me? Nothing! Just, uh, spacing out. You know how it is."
"Mind your own damn business."
"Yeah, absolutely. Will do. Minding business as we speak."
The person walked away with obvious disgust.
"Geez," Javi muttered. "Cut me some slack here. I'm trying."
After another endless stretch of nothing useful happening, he thought with profound boredom: "This is absolutely boring me to death. Is this what actual surveillance work is like? Because Richard made it sound way more exciting."
He'd spent his entire day observing, and what had he learned?
That these people genuinely meant well. That they cared about each other. That they'd built something real and good here despite difficult circumstances.
He understood that. Respected it, even.
But he needed to ask about Mr. Argent. Needed to find someone who'd actually talk to him, who'd answer questions instead of just glaring suspiciously.
Olivia was completely out of reach—she kept seeing him, kept deliberately avoiding eye contact, kept finding reasons to be in different rooms.
"Does she have some kind of personal grudge against me specifically?" he wondered aloud. "Like, did I accidentally insult her dead grandmother in a past life or something? What did I do?!"
He sighed wearily, the exhaustion of constant social rejection finally overwhelming him. "I need fresh air. Before I actually lose my mind and start arguing with the furniture."
5:00 PM. He made the executive decision to take a walk outside.
The evening air was cool against his skin—refreshing after hours in the stuffy, hostile shelter. He found himself on a bench on a quiet street corner, just sitting, breathing, trying to reset his frazzled nerves.
He glanced around, taking in the charming old buildings and peaceful street scene.
Beacon Hills was genuinely beautiful in this light. The town was bathed in soft, golden sunset glow, casting long shadows on the sidewalk, painting everything in warm amber tones that made even mundane buildings look picturesque.
For a moment, he just existed there. No mission. No pressure. Just a tired kid on a bench.
He leaned back, letting his mind wander to places it usually wasn't allowed:
"Can we really pass this trial and actually return to the academy?" The question came out as a bitter smirk. "Detective Javier García... yeah, that's got a nice ring to it, I guess. If I don't completely fail and get kicked out first."
"Wonder what Rukawa's doing right now. If his part of the plan is going better than mine. Can he actually pull off his interrogation approach? Or is he getting stonewalled too?"
"We're in such a tight spot because of that stupid magical compass. 'Stay here,' it says. 'This is where you need to be,' it says. Yeah, thanks for the wonderful advice, mystery navigation device."
He exhaled deeply, letting frustration seep out with the breath.
"You got problems, brother?"
Javi jumped, head snapping to the side.
A kid—couldn't be older than nine or ten—had somehow appeared on the bench beside him without making a sound.
Messy dark hair, smudged cheeks, but sharp, intelligent eyes that were studying Javi with open curiosity.
Javi blinked, genuinely caught off guard. "Uh... no? I mean, should I? Is there a specific problem I'm supposed to have that I don't know about?"
He offered what he hoped was a friendly smile, trying to size up this unexpected conversational partner.
"Can I sit with you?" the kid asked, though he was already sitting.
"Sure thing. Don't mind me being weird. I hope that's okay."
The kid's eyes narrowed with sudden recognition. "You're one of them. The outsiders. The troublemakers everyone's talking about."
Javi exhaled through his nose—here we go again—but kept his tone deliberately light and non-threatening. "Yep. Guilty as charged. I'm one of the terrifying teenage outsiders. Fear me."
The boy leaned in slightly, voice dropping conspiratorially. "Olivia said you two were trouble. Said you were asking weird questions and acting suspicious."
Javi raised an eyebrow, trying to keep his expression neutral despite the sting. "Did she now? That's... interesting. Very wonderful accusation."
He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Well, look—for what it's worth, we're not actually doing anything bad. I know it looks suspicious, people overthinking it, making assumptions. We got seriously misunderstood. That's all. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong overheard conversation."
The kid studied him with surprising intensity—clearly skeptical but genuinely listening. "Then why were you trying to look at the secret staff map?"
Javi couldn't help but chuckle—low and slightly self-deprecating. "Okay, first of all: not actually secret if it's just hanging on a wall. Second: I was legitimately just trying to learn my way around so I don't accidentally walk into somewhere I'm not supposed to be. Don't want to get more lost than I already am, you know?"
The kid crossed his arms with the serious expression of a tiny detective conducting an interrogation. "You're really bad at pretending to be innocent."
Javi leaned back with a genuine grin. "Maybe I am. But here's the thing—I'm actually pretty good at telling the truth when it matters."
He tilted his head, studying the kid right back. "And your friend Olivia? She's not as tough as she's pretending either. I can tell. She's scared, not mean."
The kid's defensive posture softened slightly. He shrugged with surprising maturity. "You can't really blame her, though. She's been through a lot. More than most kids should have to deal with."
Javi's playful expression faded into something more genuine—curiosity mixed with careful sympathy. "Yeah? Like what kind of 'a lot' are we talking about?"
The kid hesitated, glancing around nervously like he was breaking some unspoken rule just by talking. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper:
"It's not just her. It's almost all of us. It's because of the poachers."
Bingo.
Javi's heart rate kicked up, but he forced himself to stay calm, to not react too obviously. He nodded slowly, keeping his voice gentle and understanding:
"Yeah, I figured that might be it. I noticed the tension. The fear." He tried to make his tone as non-threatening as possible. "But listen—me and my friend? We're not with them. There's literally no reason for anyone to be suspicious of us. We're trying to help, not hurt."
The kid raised his eyebrows, completely unamused. "Why should we believe that? Just because you're teenagers? Teenagers can be dangerous too."
Javi snorted despite himself. "I mean... kinda feels like that's exactly why you shouldn't be scared of us. We're just kids. Broke kids. Lost kids. Definitely not organized criminals."
The kid looked him up and down with unsettling perception, like he was trying to read Javi's soul. "What's your name? How old are you exactly?"
Javi's lips twitched into a small, genuine smile. "I'm Javi. Fourteen. Just turned, actually, so barely fourteen. Your turn—what's your name?"
"Rearth. I'm nine." The boy's face flushed slightly with embarrassment at his own name.
Javi couldn't stop the grin from spreading. He leaned in conspiratorially. "Rearth? Like... the planet Earth? That's seriously your name?"
The kid flushed deeper red and kicked at the ground defensively. "Shut up! It's my name, okay? I didn't pick it!"
Javi held up both hands, trying—and failing—not to laugh. "No, no—I'm not making fun! It's actually cool! Super unique! I genuinely like it!"
He paused, then added more seriously: "Kinda sounds like something from a movie. Poetic. Memorable. And—" His grin returned. "—given your apparent age and personality, I'm getting serious 'annoying little brother energy' from you. Very familiar."
Rearth huffed with obvious annoyance. "You're sarcastic. Like, really sarcastic."
Javi raised his hands in mock surrender, still grinning widely. "Me? Sarcastic? Obviously. It's kind of my defining personality trait. Ask anyone."
Then he softened, his voice dropping to something more genuine and vulnerable:
"Look, Rearth—I know things here are tense. Really tense. And yeah, maybe I don't belong in this community. Maybe I'm an outsider who'll always be an outsider."
Then he softened, his voice dropping to something more genuine and vulnerable:
"Look, Rearth—I know things here are tense. Really tense. And yeah, maybe I don't belong in this community. Maybe I'm an outsider who'll always be an outsider."
He glanced toward the shelter, then back at the surprisingly perceptive kid. "But I just want to understand. Not cause trouble. Not steal anything. Not threaten anyone.
Just... figure out why we're being treated like villains when we literally haven't done anything except exist in the same building as everyone else."
Rearth stared at him, looking almost offended. "Didn't I just tell you? It's about the poachers! You and your friend were talking about them last night! People heard! Of course they're scared!"
Javi tried to defend himself, words tumbling out: "But we were talking about how to stop them! How to investigate them, gather evidence, shut down their operation! That's not a bad thing—that should be a good thing!"
Rearth's curiosity visibly perked, his defensiveness cracking. "How do you even know about them in the first place? And why would you suddenly decide to stop them? That doesn't make sense. Nobody just decides to fight dangerous criminals for no reason."
"Earlier today at the preserve—" Javi's explanation came out rushed, excited to finally have someone listening. "—me and my partner were just walking through, trying to find our way here, when we heard a gunshot. Obviously, we investigated. Followed the sound. And we saw three of them."
He described them with as much detail as he could remember: "One guy wearing a heavy scarf despite the weather. Another with a nasty scar cutting through his eye. And the third..." He paused, the memory sending a chill down his spine. "...a Russian guy. Scary-looking. Like, genuinely terrifying. The kind of person you don't want to meet in a dark alley. Or a bright alley. Or any alley ever."
Rearth's face filled with genuine surprise. His voice dropped even lower: "You're not lying to me? Not making this up to seem cool or brave?"
Javi shot him a completely blank, honest look. "What would I possibly gain from lying about witnessing a crime? Literally nothing, right? I'm telling you the truth. We saw them. We saw what they did—" He stopped himself before describing the dead wolf, not wanting to traumatize a nine-year-old.
"You're not scared of them?" Rearth's voice carried disbelief mixed with something that might have been admiration.
"Terrified, actually." Javi's honesty was stark. "I'm scared. My partner's scared, even though he'd never admit it. But being scared doesn't mean you don't do what's right."
Rearth's response was harsh, his voice losing hope, becoming almost bitter: "What are you? You can't just decide to 'do what's right' and suddenly take responsibility for stopping dangerous criminals! Not when you're dealing with people like them! That's not brave—that's foolish. That's how people get hurt. Or worse."
The kid's cynicism at nine years old was heartbreaking.
Javi's voice was gentler when he responded: "You won't believe me if I told you everything about why we can do this. But you'll know soon enough, I promise. When this is over, you'll understand."
He winked, trying to bring some lightness back.
Rearth sighed heavily, shoulders slumping. "But it's still a sensitive topic around here. Everyone hates that word—'poachers.' It's like a trigger. The second you mention it, everybody turns against you. Instantly. No questions asked."
Javi deflated slightly, running a hand through his hair with frustration. "Yeah... I'm finally getting that now. Doesn't mean we like being treated like criminals ourselves, but... I understand the fear. I do."
He looked down at Rearth, his voice dropping to something more serious: "People got hurt, didn't they? By the poachers? That's what this is really about?"
Silence.
But it was loaded silence. Confirming silence.
Rearth's micro-expression—the brief flash of pain, of memory, of trauma—told Javi everything he needed to know.
Javi's eyes went wide with realization. "So something did actually happen?!" His voice came out as an urgent hushed tone, trying not to attract attention.
Rearth's response was immediate panic. He lowered his voice to match Javi's whisper: "But I'm not the one who's supposed to tell you about it! I'll get in serious trouble! Mr. Argent said we don't talk about it with strangers!"
Javi quickly backpedaled, not wanting to get this surprisingly helpful kid in trouble or scare him off. "Alright, alright, alright! I'm dropping it! Totally dropped! We never had this conversation!"
He took a breath, shifting topics as obviously as possible.
"So, uh... can I ask about Mr. Argent instead? What's he look like? I've been here all day and haven't seen anyone who seems like the person in charge."
Rearth seemed to consider whether answering this was also forbidden, then apparently decided it was harmless enough.
"He looks... pretty tough. Like a really serious guy." The kid's description was surprisingly detailed. "Not big and muscular tough, but capable tough. Like he knows exactly how to handle problems. He always walks with this... purpose, you know? Like every step is planned. Like he knows exactly what he's doing and never second-guesses himself."
He paused, trying to find better words, his young face scrunching with concentration.
"He's kind of scary, honestly. Not mean-scary. Just... intense-scary. Like you don't want to disappoint him or make him angry because bad things would happen."
Javi leaned forward with poorly concealed excitement. "Really? What else can you tell me? Does he have an office? Specific times he's around? Does he—"
Suddenly, a bell rang through the evening air—loud, clear, summoning.
The dinner bell.
Both Javi and Rearth snapped their heads toward the shelter door.
"Dinner time!" Rearth immediately jumped up, brushing dirt off his clothes with practiced efficiency. "I should go. I'm supposed to help set tables."
Javi raised his eyebrows, slightly desperate. "Hey, wait! Where are you going so fast?!"
"To eat dinner. Obviously." The kid was already moving toward the door.
Javi called out, trying one more time: "Wait! You could at least tell me Mr. Argent's first name! Give me something to work with here!"
Rearth paused at the door, looked back, and actually smiled—a genuine, warm expression that transformed his serious little face.
"Raphael Argent. That's his full name." His legs were already carrying him through the entrance. "Nice to actually know you, Javi! Let's talk again soon, okay?"
And with that, he disappeared inside, the door closing firmly behind him.
Javi sat there, frustrated but also oddly... hopeful?
"I'm not done asking questions yet..." he muttered to the empty street.
"Damn it! I was almost there! So close! I should have asked that question way sooner instead of dancing around it!"
He gathered himself, took a deep breath, tried to organize his thoughts.
Javi groaned and leaned back on the bench, staring at the darkening sky as stars began appearing.
"One step forward, two steps directly into a brick wall. Classic Javi luck."
He pushed himself up eventually, brushing off his pants with weary determination.
"But... Rearth actually talked to me. Like, had a real conversation. Didn't run away screaming or throw rocks at my head." A small, genuine smirk tugged at his lips. "That's progress. Definite progress. That's something."
As he headed back toward the shelter, hands shoved deep in his pockets, he muttered under his breath with renewed determination:
"Raphael Argent... you better be worth all this drama and social rejection I'm enduring."
He pulled out the compass from his jacket pocket, feeling its warmth against his palm. The needle still pointed steadily at the shelter—confirmation they were on the right path, even if it was the hardest possible path.
"I really hope you're actually helping us," he whispered to the inanimate object like it could hear him. "I really hope you can somehow speed this whole process up. And I really hope you're actually a goddamn lucky charm and not just a cursed torture device."
Then he shoved it back into his pocket with more force than necessary.
He glanced at the shelter door with grim determination.
For now, the midnight rendezvous awaited him—where Rukawa would be expecting his report, his intelligence, his findings.
Time to see if his partner had better luck.
But before he could reach the door, it suddenly opened.
The old man from earlier—Steve—appeared, surprisingly holding a plate of food. His expression was still stern, but his actions contradicted his hostile words.
Javi approached cautiously, respectfully. "Oh. Um. Thank you, sir—Steve. I really appreciate—"
Steve cut him off gruffly: "Eat. But stay exactly where you are outside. Don't come in yet. And when you're done, go directly to the stock room. You and your companion are sleeping there tonight. Olivia's orders. Not mine."
He thrust the plate toward Javi with more force than necessary.
Javi carefully took it, trying to express gratitude. "Thanks, Mr. Steve. Seriously, I—"
"I don't need your thanks."
"Oh. Okay. But still, I appreciate—"
"I said I don't need it, boy. Just eat and follow instructions for once."
Then Steve turned and walked back inside. The door slammed shut with enough force to make Javi physically jump.
"GAHH!" Javi yelped, his heart rate spiking. "Jesus! He reminds me of Gwen all of a sudden. Same energy. Same door-slamming technique. Terrifying."
He looked down at the plate—simple but warm food. Actual care hidden beneath hostile delivery.
He sat back down on the bench, bringing the fork to his mouth.
"Guess even the grumpy ones have hearts somewhere deep down," he muttered between bites.
He ate slowly, methodically, trying to gain as much energy as possible for the late-night appointment.
Because at midnight, he'd need to be sharp.
Ready to share intelligence.
Ready to plan the next move.
Ready to figure out what the hell was actually happening in this impossible town that had somehow become the center of everything.
Raphael Argent.
The poachers.
The shelter's secrets.
Rukawa's investigation.
All the threads were pulling together.
And soon—very soon—they'd see the full picture.
Whether they were ready for it or not.