The growl of high-performance engines echoed in the narrow alley as Selene's convoy rolled to a stop. Streetlights cast long, distorted shadows on the wet pavement. She stepped out of her Maserati, the driver's door closing with a solid thunk.
Her black coat swirled around her legs as she stood perfectly still, her gaze methodically sweeping the dark recesses between the brick buildings. The air was cold, carrying the faint smell of damp stone and exhaust.
"Michael!" Her voice was sharp, cutting through the low thrum of the idling cars.
A figure detached itself from the deepest darkness. Michael. He didn't hesitate, sprinting across the pavement, his footsteps slapping frantically on the concrete. He yanked the rear door open and scrambled inside, throwing himself across the leather seats.
"Go! Go!"
The Maserati's tires screamed in protest, spinning for a fraction of a second before finding grip. The car shot forward, throwing Michael against the seatback. The door hadn't even latched, clicking shut only as they rounded the corner at high speed.
What Selene didn't know was that two separate werewolf teams were watching from different rooftops. The Doctor's squad and Connor's team had already rendezvoused, combining their forces. They remained hidden, silent observers, letting the convoy pull away. They hung back, following at a careful, deliberate distance, content to see exactly where Selene would take their target. If a clear opportunity presented itself, they would strike.
The convoy moved as a single unit, threading through the late-night traffic of London. Reflections of streetlights and neon signs washed over the car's interior. Michael stayed quiet in the back, breathing heavily.
They finally pulled into a private access lane, stopping before a modern, sterile-looking building. The glass-and-steel facade bore a discreet silver logo: Ziodex Industries.
Selene's voice was all business, cutting through the silence as they drove.
"We're taking you to one of our secure locations. You'll be safe there."
She turned slightly into the driver's seat, her eyes finding his in the rearview mirror. "Give me the Dragon Ball."
Michael met her gaze. He leaned forward, gripping the headrest. "Money in my account first, then you get the Dragon Ball."
He added quickly, "Besides, I didn't bring it with me. I'm not stupid enough to walk into a vampire base carrying something that valuable. That's like a lamb walking into a lion's den."
He settled back, trying to look more confident than he felt. "As soon as the money clears, I'll tell you where I hid it."
Selene wasn't surprised. This was predictable. She simply nodded. "Fine. We'll get you somewhere secure first. The werewolves won't stop hunting you."
She held out her hand, not looking back. "Give me your account information. I'll have someone at the bank transfer ten million tomorrow during business hours."
Michael just nodded silently, saying nothing more.
The convoy came to a stop in a secure underground garage. Car doors opened and closed with quiet, precise sounds. Twenty-two vampires, all dressed in tactical black, moved with unnatural speed and silence, forming a perimeter. Michael, the single human in their midst, followed Selene into the building, acutely aware of how out of place he was.
Selene led Michael through polished, quiet corridors. The air was cool and still. They stopped at a heavy steel door, which opened into a room that looked nothing like an office. It was stark white, lit by harsh fluorescent panels. It felt more like a prison cell combined with a laboratory. Medical equipment and diagnostic machines lined one wall. A heavy chair sat in the center. Restraints hung neatly from a rack on the far wall.
"This is one of our interrogation facilities," Selene said. Her tone was flat, without apology. "But you're safe here."
She turned to him, her patience already wearing thin. "Now, your bank account."
Soren, who had been standing silently in the corner, stepped forward and produced a simple pen and a small notepad. Michael took them, his hands shaking just slightly as he wrote down the account number and sort code. He tore the sheet off and handed it to Selene.
Selene glanced at it, then passed the paper to one of her Death Dealers. "Arrange the transfer. Ten million. Tomorrow, right after the bank opens."
The Death Dealer nodded once and left the room without a word.
Another vampire entered, one of Soren's men. He caught Soren's eye from the doorway and gave a short, almost imperceptible shake of his head. They had been tracking Michael's movements earlier. Clearly, they hadn't found where he'd stashed the Dragon Ball.
Selene's attention snapped back to Michael. His breathing had turned ragged, a harsh, wet sound in the quiet room. Dark stains were spreading across the fabric of his left shoulder, fresh blood soaking through his shirt.
She crossed the room in two long, fluid strides. Before he could react, she grabbed his collar and yanked it down, exposing the savaged flesh beneath. Her expression, already professional, went ice-cold.
"What happened to your shoulder?"
The atmosphere in the room changed instantly. Every vampire present fixed their eyes on Michael. The air suddenly felt heavy and dangerous.
Michael swallowed, his throat dry. "Yesterday. When I was escaping on a drainage pipe, the guy jumped up and bit me."
Soren spoke up from the side. "That must have been when he grabbed me and pulled me down. My view was blocked. I didn't see it happen."
Michael looked at the faces around him. He noticed the regret, and something else, a strange, almost clinical pity. "What's the problem? I already got a rabies vaccine."
Selene laughed. It was not a kind or amused sound. It was short and sharp. "Rabies vaccine. That's actually appropriate for those wolf pups."
Her smile vanished, replaced by that chilling neutrality. "The thing that bit you was a werewolf. You've been marked."
She paused, letting the words sink into the sterile air. "You're caught in the middle of a war that's lasted over a thousand years. A blood feud between vampires and werewolves."
Her gaze was unwavering. "I hope you're lucky. Most people die within an hour of being bitten by a werewolf. The virus is lethal to humans."
Michael's voice came out steadier than he felt. He was grasping for any leverage he had left. "I've already lasted a full day. That means I won't die."
He locked eyes with her. "And if I die now, you'll never get your Dragon Ball."
Selene smiled again, this time with a flicker of genuine, cold approval. "True. You survived the adaptation period. But you understand what comes next, don't you?"
She didn't wait for an answer. "Once the adaptation period ends, you'll transform into a werewolf."
Michael looked around at the vampires surrounding him. Their expressions ranged from openly hostile to coldly calculating. He was cornered. A desperate, logical idea struck him.
"If you bite me," he asked, his voice low, "would I become a vampire instead?"
Selene's face went completely flat. "No. No one survives being turned by both species. The competing viruses would tear you apart."
She didn't know this was actually the perfect moment to turn Michael. If she embraced him now, while the werewolf virus was still integrating, he would become something unprecedented. Something with the powers of both species.
Neither of them knew the real reason the werewolves wanted Michael. Both assumed it was just about the Dragon Ball.
Michael processed her words, the finality of them. He then asked quietly, "If I turn into a werewolf, will you still protect me?"
The room fell utterly silent. No one moved. No one answered. The only sound was the faint hum of the electronics.
A bitter smile touched Michael's lips. The werewolves had played him perfectly.
Selene finally spoke, her voice cutting the tension. "I'll protect you."
She stepped closer. "As long as you give me the Dragon Ball, I keep my promises. My reputation in the vampire coven is beyond question."
Michael studied her eyes, searching for any hint of deception. He didn't know if he could trust her. But he knew, with chilling certainty, he had no other options left.
"I believe you."
Selene turned and walked to a large, stainless steel medical refrigerator against the wall. She opened it, pulled out a standard blood bag, and tossed it to him underhand.
"You'll need this once you transform."
Michael caught it awkwardly. The plastic was cold and heavy. He stared at the label. "Ziodex Industries?"
"Our company," Selene said. "We used to manufacture synthetic blood plasma. Now we produce this."
She nodded at the bag. "Once it's perfected, it'll be our most profitable product line."
Michael turned the bag over in his hands. "This is blood."
Selene had moved to a bank of security monitors, checking the building's exterior cameras, confirming they hadn't been followed. The screens flickered, showing empty streets and garage doors.
Michael set the cold blood bag down on a sterile metal tray. He looked around the room more carefully, his eyes landing on the instruments. Pliers of several types. Scalpels. And, arranged in neat rows, gleaming silver bullets.
"What's all this for?"
Selene glanced back at him, her primary focus still on cycling through the camera feeds. "Werewolves are allergic to silver. If we don't extract the bullets quickly during interrogation, they die before we get useful information."
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