The waiting room on the top floor of Farren Towers felt too clean for the kind of thoughts Austin was having.
Everything up there was glass, steel, and carefully controlled silence. The carpet beneath his boots muted every restless shift of his weight, every impatient tap of his foot, like the building itself did not approve of unease. Floor to ceiling windows framed a sky that had decided to sulk for the morning, clouds hanging low and heavy, rain streaking down the glass in thin, uneven lines. It was the kind of weather that made the city feel smaller, boxed in, like the world had pulled its shoulders up and decided to endure the day instead of enjoy it.
Austin sat in one of the minimalist leather chairs, elbows resting on his thighs, a slim folder balanced loosely in his hands. The documents inside were neatly organized, tabs aligned, pages crisp, but his grip on them was distracted, unfocused. His foot tapped against the floor in a steady, unconscious rhythm, speeding up whenever his thoughts veered somewhere he did not like.
Elizabeth Thorne.
Her voice from yesterday kept replaying in his head, not the words exactly, but the tone. The crack in it. The way urgency had bled through her usual composure. Austin hadn't known Elizabeth for long, but he knew her enough to know that that wasn't natural for her. He had never seen her sound… undone.
It bothered him more than he wanted to admit.
He had spent most of his career learning how to read fear, anger, hesitation. As a medic with the Navy SEALs, he had learned to recognize it in men bleeding out in sand and darkness, had learned when someone was lying to themselves about how bad things really were. Elizabeth's voice yesterday had not been an act. That much he was sure of. And that realization had unsettled something in him.
He had always told himself that Elizabeth Thorne was different. That whatever she was, whatever games she played, she was too far gone into power and legacy to feel things the way normal people did. Yesterday had made that belief feel fragile.
More human, he thought reluctantly.
And that was dangerous.
It was part of why he had agreed to help, or at least to try. Not because she had ordered him to, not because of money or obligation, but because something in her had sounded raw enough to be real. That, and the question she had thrown at him like a blade.
If someone had killed your son, would you still hold up this noble act?
His jaw tightened.
His thoughts drifted, uninvited, to Clara. To the way her laugh used to fill rooms. To the smell of antiseptic and burnt metal that had clung to his clothes the night he found out she was gone. He had never met her killer. Fate, bureaucracy, and circumstance had made sure of that. But if he had, if the universe had placed that person in front of him, breathing, alive, vulnerable… he was no longer certain what version of himself would have answered.
Austin exhaled slowly through his nose, grounding himself. Whatever happened next with Cassius Vane, whatever line he might cross, would be decided by the man himself. That was the rule Austin lived by. He did not kill lightly, did not kill out of spite. He would look Cassius Vane in the eye and decide who he really was.
A soft click of heels broke through his thoughts.
"Mr. Greene," the secretary said gently, standing a few steps away. "Mr. Farren will see you now."
Austin looked up. The secretary barely came up to his shoulder, her posture straight, professional, eyes flicking briefly to the folder in his hands before returning to his face. He stood, unfolding to his full height with an ease that made the difference between them immediately apparent. Even in civilian clothes, there was something unmistakably military about the way he moved.
He wore a worn leather jacket over a plain shirt, dark jeans, boots scuffed from use rather than neglect. His beard had grown out a little too long, giving him a rougher edge, and his face, broad and expressive, carried the kind of fatigue that came from thinking too much and sleeping too little. The secretary paused briefly, noticing his features, the strong jaw, the expressive eyes, the athletic build, but there was a gravity there too, something quieter and heavier.
He nodded once. "Thanks."
The secretary led him down the short corridor to the glass office doors. Austin stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft thud. Immediately, Alexander Farren pressed a button on his desk. The glass walls shimmered, then faded into opaque white, cutting them off from the rest of the floor.
Privacy.
The air in the office felt warmer, thicker. The room was expansive, polished, power made architectural. A massive desk dominated the center, dark wood gleaming under carefully positioned lights. Floor to ceiling windows stretched behind it, offering a sweeping view of the city below.
Alexander Farren sat behind the desk, waiting.
He looked exactly like the kind of man who knew he owned every room he walked into. Tailored pinstripe suit, crisp white shirt, tie perfectly aligned. His posture was relaxed, but not casual, the kind of stillness that suggested control rather than comfort. His face, sharp and composed, carried the unmistakable confidence of someone used to winning arguments before they even started.
Their eyes met, and for a brief moment, neither spoke.
It was not hostile. It was assessment.
Austin took the seat across from the desk, adjusting it slightly before sitting, angling it just enough to keep his body open, balanced, ready. A habit from years of entering rooms that might turn ugly without warning. Farren noticed. His gaze flicked to the chair, then back to Austin's face. He said nothing.
Farren reached into a drawer, pulled out a cigar and a cutter. The snip of the blade echoed softly as he trimmed the end. He lit it with practiced ease, the flame flaring briefly, the scent of tobacco curling through the air.
He stood, cigar between his fingers, and walked toward the window, hands clasped loosely behind his back.
Outside, Moonstone spread out below them, compact but alive. A city nested in forest, glass and concrete rising out of green like something grown rather than built. From this height, it looked almost peaceful, a small New York dropped into wilderness.
Austin broke the silence. "You wanted to see me."
Farren exhaled smoke slowly, watching it fade against the glass. "I saw your request. The documents you submitted."
"And?" Austin asked, keeping his voice even.
Farren turned slightly, one brow lifting. "And you must think I'm an idiot if you expect me to pour company money into that."
Austin frowned. "Into what?"
"Into a personal crusade," Farren said calmly. "This isn't a fairy tale. This is business. Operations cost money. Manpower, surveillance, logistics. If there's no return, no tangible payoff, then all you're asking me to do is bleed resources."
Austin leaned forward slightly. "Cassius Vane is not nothing."
"If he were a real threat," Farren replied smoothly, "I would already know about him."
Austin felt irritation spark, but he kept it in check. "You're wrong."
Farren turned fully now, eyes sharp. "Am I? Or is this about something else? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're chasing a ghost. Or worse, a vendetta."
The word landed hard.
"Maybe you should reconsider whether you're fit for this role," Farren added, voice still level.
Austin went still.
"Why did you hire me?" he asked.
Farren hesitated, just for a fraction of a second.
"Why did you hire me?" Austin repeated, slower this time.
Farren studied him, then sighed quietly. "You were recommended. Highly. By Sebastian Thorne."
Austin blinked. That caught him off guard. "Sebastian Thorne?"
"One of our public shareholders," Farren said. "And a man who didn't recommend lightly."
Austin absorbed that, unease creeping in. A werewolf patriarch investing in a security firm known for handling supernatural threats was not lost on him.
He met Farren's gaze. "Since the day you hired me, have I given you any reason to doubt my judgment?"
Farren was silent for a moment. Then, bluntly, "What do you really want, Austin?"
Austin opened the folder.
He pulled out two photographs and stood, walking toward Farren before handing them over. Farren took them, eyes scanning the images.
Bodies. Aftermath. Blood soaked earth.
"After the Gryphon raid," Austin said. "These are Vane's men."
Farren's eyes narrowed slightly.
"What caught my attention," Austin continued, pointing to one image, "was this."
A rifle, partially visible beside a corpse. Sleek. Modern.
"Farren tech," Austin said. "Designed specifically for killing werewolves."
Farren stiffened.
"I don't know what your angle is," Austin said calmly. "But if the wrong people see this, they won't think smuggling. They'll think collaboration. Optics get ugly fast."
Farren looked back at him. "This has never been an issue before."
Austin handed him another document. "I dug into the Vanes. Medieval era werewolf hunters. They made a fortune. But after the coexistence act, that dried up. They disappeared."
He tapped the paper. "The Gryphon attack wasn't random. You don't hit like that without a plan. They're stirring something, and your weapons tie you to it."
The silence stretched.
Finally, Farren asked, "What do you propose?"
"I want a unit," Austin said. "Unrestricted access to surveillance, intel, assets. We find them, map them, and shut them down. Quietly."
"And if containment fails?"
"Then we eliminate the threat."
Farren stared out the window again, jaw tight. The city below remained oblivious.
"This never leaves this room," he said at last.
Austin nodded once.
When he turned to leave, the weight of what came next settled in his chest.
This was just the beginning.