By morning, the camp no longer pretended at unity.
What had once been quiet alignment fractured into visible camps, groups forming and dissolving in the open, conversations cutting short when the wrong person approached.
Neutrality evaporated. Silence became suspicion.
The inquiry moved fast.
Too fast.
That should have comforted me.
It didn't.
Speed is rarely about justice. It's about control.
Rhea walked beside me as we crossed the central grounds toward the provisional review chamber, her jaw set, eyes scanning constantly.
"They're nervous," she said. "Everyone.
Even the ones who support you."
"Fear doesn't disappear just because truth surfaces," I replied. "It relocates."
Inside, the room buzzed with controlled chaos. Recorders activated. Logs projected. Witnesses queued.
The rival wasn't there.
That absence spoke louder than his presence ever had.
"He's isolating," Rhea murmured. "Or preparing."
"Both," I said.
The inquiry opened with the northern incident—routes, authorizations, anomalies. The data held. Clean. Relentless.
Then came testimonies.
Junior officers. Coordinators. Wolves who had never spoken publicly before.
Each story added weight.
Each crack widened.
By midday, the narrative was no longer whether manipulation had occurred—but how far it extended.
That was when the first body was found.
Not dead.
Injured.
One of the inquiry clerks, young, meticulous, terrified—was discovered unconscious near the archives. No witnesses. No alarm.
But the records he'd been reviewing were gone.
Panic rippled.
"This changes everything," someone whispered.
No. It clarified everything.
"They're erasing evidence," Rhea said tightly.
"They're escalating," I corrected.
The alpha arrived moments later, expression grim.
"We're suspending proceedings temporarily," he announced. "Security breach."
"No," I said.
Heads turned.
"Suspension gives them time," I continued. "Time is what they want."
"This isn't a debate," he said.
"It is," I replied. "Because if we pause now, we send a message: intimidation works."
Silence.
Then a voice from the back: "She's right."
Another followed.
And another.
The alpha studied the room, then nodded once. "Proceed. Under guard."
The inquiry resumed under tension thick enough to choke on.
That afternoon, the rival finally appeared.
Not alone.
He brought legal counsel from outside authority, neutral on paper, dangerous in practice.
"You're compromising due process," the lawyer said calmly. "This inquiry lacks jurisdiction."
"It has necessity," I replied.
"Necessity doesn't override law."
"No," I agreed. "But law without integrity is just procedure."
The rival watched me closely. Too closely.
He was calm.
That scared me more than rage ever could.
As the hours dragged on, something else became clear:
He wasn't defending himself.
He was stalling.
By evening, reports began filtering in—disturbances across multiple sectors. Minor incidents. Enough to stretch security thin.
Diversions.
"They're splitting us," Rhea said.
"Yes," I replied. "And something worse is coming."
It arrived after dark.
An explosion—controlled, surgical—ripped through the secondary storage wing.
No casualties.
But the fire that followed devoured archived records dating back decades.
I arrived as flames licked the night sky, heat biting into my skin.
"They targeted the past," I said hoarsely.
"They're erasing history," Rhea replied.
Sirens wailed. Orders flew. Panic edged toward chaos.
The rival stood at the perimeter, watching the fire with something like regret or satisfaction.
"This is what instability looks like," he said when I confronted him. "You wanted transparency. This is the cost."
"You did this," I said.
"Prove it," he replied softly.
And that was the problem.
By the time the flames were extinguished, entire chains of evidence were gone.
Gone.
That night, exhaustion finally gave way to something darker.
Rage.
Not loud. Not wild.
Focused.
I sat alone in the command room, staring at the empty archive logs, hands steady despite the storm inside me.
"They're willing to burn everything," I said to the alpha.
"Yes," he replied. "Including the pack, if it keeps them in control."
"Then we stop playing defense," I said.
He met my gaze. "What are you proposing?"
"We expose motive," I said. "Not just action."
"How?"
"Follow the money. The favors. The external ties. Burn the roots, not the leaves."
Rhea stepped forward. "That implicates powerful allies outside the pack."
"Good," I said. "Let them feel heat."
The alpha exhaled slowly. "This will make enemies we can't see."
"I already have one," I replied. "And he's counting on invisibility."
That night, I didn't sleep.
I walked the perimeter instead, feeling the weight of everything that had been lost—records, trust, lives nearly broken.
Collateral damage.
That was his strategy.
Make the cost of truth unbearable.
But as I watched the embers cool, something else settled into place.
He had burned evidence.
Which meant he was afraid of what remained.
And fear, when cornered, makes mistakes.
I stopped at the edge of the ruins, smoke curling into the night.
"This ends soon," I whispered.
Not because I wanted it to.
But because he had forced the pace.
And now, there would be no controlled exits.
Only consequences.