WOLVES WITHIN WALLS

The city never slept-not truly. Even past midnight, light bled through the blinds of Zara's new apartment like it was still midday, casting long rectangles across her half-unpacked boxes and the tired curve of her spine. She stood up from bed, and walked tiredly to the window, barefoot on cold marble, breasts bare, staring at the skyline that rose like jagged teeth all around her.

She had made it, ululating.

Twenty-three floors above the chaos. No more roommates. No more moldy basements or apartments that smelled like regret and old takeouts. Just silence, space, and the luxury of being alone. She smiled faintly, feeling accomplished as she pressed her fingers to the glass.

Below, lights flickered-strange, rhythmic patterns in the alleyway. She squinted, trying to follow the movement. It looked like...a man? No. Two. No. Three? Their shadows moved unnaturally, like they were built from smoke. One of them looked up suddenly, and for a brief, chilling moment, Zara could've sworn his eyes flashed silver. Not from the streetlamps. From within.

She blinked. Gone. Immediately, she stepped back.

"I need more sleep," she muttered to herself, shaking off the cold slither running down her spine.

Behind her, the apartment was sterile and modern-chrome finishes, white stone countertops, sleek furniture that looked like it belonged in a magazine rather than a home. The only personal touch was her mother's rosary on the wall, hanging crookedly near the front door.

The place was almost too perfect. She'd barely signed the lease before the realtor handed her the keys with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Don't go up to the 25th floor," she had said, half-joking. "It's under renovation."

There were only 24 floors.

Zara had laughed awkwardly and taken the keys anyway. The price was a steal. And who cared if the building had a weird little glitch?

She was used to the weird. She grew up with it.

But later that night, when she finally crawled into bed again and the city's sound faded into the soft hum of silence, she heard something.

Scratching.

Slow. Deliberate. Right above her.

Her eyes flew open.

The ceiling was bare, smooth, untouched. But the sound continued. A slow scrape, like nails dragging across concrete.

She sat up, heart pounding. "Maybe rats," she whispered, because naming a fear made it less real. "Or bad insulation. Or-"

A knock. Sharp. Three quick taps on her front door.

Zara froze.

She waited.

Nothing.

Swallowing hard, she climbed out of bed and tiptoed to the door. She peeked through the peephole.

No one was there.

Except-

She jerked back.

A man stood in the hallway. Not in front of her door, but off to the side, near the elevator. Dressed in a well ironed and exquisite black suit, he looked like he'd stepped out of a fashion ad-but something about him was wrong. His shoulders were too stiff. His posture, too still. His head tilted slowly toward her, as if he could feel her watching.

And those silver eyes.

Not like reflections. Like a storm trapped in glass.

She slammed the peephole shut and backed away. Her pulse roared in her ears.

Ten minutes passed.

Then twenty.

She didn't sleep.

****************

The next morning, everything was sunshine and soft music in the building lobby. The concierge smiled too widely, and the security guard looked like he hadn't blinked in years.

"I didn't know there were other tenants on my floor," Zara reported casually.

"There aren't," the concierge replied, still smiling. "You're the only one on 23."

"Oh." She hesitated. "Then who lives above me?"

A flicker of something passed across the man's face, his smiling face-gone in a blink. "No one."

"But-"

"The top floor is restricted," he said smoothly. "Corporate storage. Nothing you need to worry about."

Corporate storage. Right.

Zara stepped out into the morning light and let the lie settle in her chest like a stone.

*********************

That night, she went back to the window. The alley was quiet. No strange movements. No silver-eyed shadows. No bad feelings.

She turned away-and screamed.

He was standing in her kitchen.

Black suit. Silver eyes. Stillness that felt like thunder before it cracked.

"How-"

"You left your door unlocked," he interrupted calmly.

She hadn't.

"You need to leave this building," he continued, voice low and steady. "Tonight."

She grabbed the nearest thing-a lamp-and raised it like a weapon. "Get out!"

He didn't move. Didn't even blink.

"You're not safe here."

"You think breaking into my home and threatening me is safe?"

His lips twitched. Not quite a smile. "Better me than them."

And then he was gone.

Just-gone. One second there. The next, empty space and a spinning lamp falling from her trembling hands.

Zara backed into the wall, heart slamming against her ribs. Her breath caught on her tongue.

This was a dream. A nightmare. She must be sleep-deprived. Hallucinating.

That had to be it.

But in the morning, there were footprints.

Bare, wet footprints leading from the kitchen to the door. No rain outside. No spilled water.

Just prints. As if someone had walked in from a place that didn't belong in her world.

*******************

She went to the building office, ready to scream, ready to demand answers. But the office was closed. No one answered the phone. Her emails bounced back.

It was like the building had swallowed everyone.

So she did what any desperate woman with decent Wi-Fi and insomnia would do-she searched. Deep dives. Weird forums. Obscure message boards. She followed whispers like blood trails. A particular location, the centre of attraction.

And she found it.

The Ferae Consortium. A name tied to obscure property investments, "corporate retreats," and hush-hush lawsuits. Every building they touched had disappearances. Shadows. Rumors of people seeing things they shouldn't.

Her building was owned by them.

Zara stared at her screen, chilled to the bone. A name popped up again and again:

Lucien Vale.

CEO. Recluse. The face of the Ferae Consortium-when it had one.

She clicked the only blurry image the internet had of him.

Her blood ran cold.

Silver eyes.

****************************

That night, she locked every bolt. Barred her door with a room divider. Kept a kitchen knife beside her bed.

It didn't matter.

At 3:13 a.m., she felt goosebumps on her body and opened her eyes to find her windows open.

And him standing there.

Not in a suit this time.

Barefoot. Shirtless. Pale scars etched into his skin like lightning frozen in time.

"I told you to leave," he said softly.

Her voice shook. "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm the one who's trying to keep you alive."

She laughed bitterly and mockingly. "Great job so far."

He stepped closer, and she caught the scent of rain and metal. Not cologne. Not natural.

Primal.

"I'm not the danger," he said. "But they'll smell you soon."

"Who?"

His eyes darkened. "The ones who never left the 25th floor."

"There is no 25th floor."

She stated the obvious.

"There is," he said quietly. "You just haven't seen it yet."

Then he reached into his pocket and tossed something onto her bed.

A key.

Black metal. Engraved with a crescent moon.

"When the scratching starts again," he said, "run. Use that key. The elevator will take you where you need to go."

"And then what?"

Lucien Vale turned toward the window, muscles rippling beneath skin that looked too perfect to be real.

"Then you'll learn what's hunting you."

He leapt from the window.

She ran to it-but there was no body. No blood. Just a hustling wind.

And somewhere far below, a howl rising through the steel and glass of the city.