Without wasting a moment, Harper clicked on the recording marked 11:50 p.m. The screen changed, and the video began to play.
Aron and Harper watched intently.
In the footage, a neatly dressed man stood inside the elevator. His face was clear—middle-aged, calm, barely a hint of anxiety showing. A few seconds later, the elevator doors opened, and he stepped out.
Silence.
Harper sped up the playback. Minutes passed quickly on the screen before the same man reappeared. This time, his steps were hurried. In his hands, he held something tightly—an object resembling a hammer.
"Now you have proof showing our client is innocent," Victoria's voice broke the silence. "You can release him."
Harper glanced back at her, eyebrows furrowed. "But how did you find all this?"
"Let's just say I was lucky," Victoria replied calmly. "Besides, that's not important."
Harper's eyes were still filled with questions, but he finally relented. The detective stood from his chair.
Aron watched as Harper stepped to the front of the desk and pulled his phone from his pocket. Meanwhile, Aron turned to Victoria.
"This time, you seem in a hurry," he said softly. "Do you have somewhere else to be?"
"Yes. Once this is done, I need to handle something important."
"Do you want me to come with you?"
"No need," Victoria answered without hesitation. "You're just human."
"Alright…" Aron replied briefly, turning his gaze away. Yet he could feel Victoria's eyes lingering on him for a moment.
Harper continued talking on the phone, nodding occasionally and glancing at the two of them. A few minutes later, the call ended.
"Okay. Done," he said. "I've informed Craig. Your client will be released."
"Thank you," Aron said.
"Then our business here is finished. Let's go," Victoria said.
Aron didn't reply, simply following her lead.
"We'll be off first, Detective Harper," Aron said before walking away. "Thanks for your help."
"I should be the one thanking you," Harper replied, still bewildered.
He watched until Aron and Victoria's figures disappeared through the door—leaving behind more questions than answers.
"I don't really know what your business is," Aron admitted as they rode the descending elevator. "But I hope you stay careful."
Victoria didn't answer immediately. Her gaze stayed fixed ahead before she finally spoke, calm but weighted.
"I hope you understand one thing, Aron. If creatures like me exist… other creatures exist in this city too."
"You mean… werewolves?" Aron asked, trying to interpret her words.
Victoria turned to him. Her expression was serious—there was no room for jokes.
"Don't look at me like that," Aron said. "It's all in movies or shows. Everyone knows the story—vampires versus werewolves, always the same plot."
Victoria snorted angrily. "Reality isn't much different. They look human… but in truth… they're disgusting beasts."
"Why do you hate them so much?" Aron asked quietly.
Victoria fell silent. Several seconds passed before she spoke again.
"There's a reason we hate them," she said. "But you don't need to know all of it."
Aron nodded slightly. "I understand. And I never intended to interfere with your affairs."
"But from now on," Victoria said, turning slightly toward him, "you need to be more careful."
"I can take care of myself," Aron replied. "You… take care of yourself too. Don't get hurt."
Victoria stared at Aron. In that moment, something unfamiliar seeped into her chest—not fear, not suspicion—but a feeling that shouldn't exist after thousands of years, slowly taking hold.
"Why?" Aron asked, noticing her gaze.
"Nothing," Victoria answered quickly, turning her face away.
The elevator continued its descent before coming to a stop. The doors slid open.
"Where are you headed next?" Victoria asked as they approached the exit.
"To my office," Aron replied. "In case there's a call from a new client."
Victoria didn't ask further. They walked side by side in silence until they stepped out of the building.
"I'm leaving now," Victoria said simply.
Aron nodded.
Victoria paused for a moment. Her eyes lingered on Aron's face, as if there was something she wanted to say but couldn't. After a few seconds, she turned and walked away.
Aron remained standing, watching her steps fade until she finally disappeared from sight. Only then did he step to the curb, raising his hand to hail a taxi that slowed to a stop before him.
***
In the northern Bronx, there was a city that was quiet—quiet enough for local authorities to choose to look the other way. The city wasn't officially marked as a forbidden zone, but everyone knew—it was a territory not to be disturbed.
The area was fully controlled by the Lycan clan. Werewolves who had established their presence in New York since 1809, moving in the shadows of history and the city's chaos. Since then, they had ruled northern Bronx without interference, building their power behind walls of fear and the reluctance of outsiders to meddle in their affairs.
Yet beneath that authority, one rule had never been questioned.
An ancient treaty, set by the Vampire Queen as a symbol of balance between two ancient powers. The rule was clear—the Lycan clan was forbidden from expanding their territory. Since the 19th century, this decree had served as a restraint, keeping the Lycans' power limited to northern Bronx.
That restraint was now being tested.
Farkas, the new leader of the Lycan clan, was unlike his predecessors. Since taking control, he had quietly broken the old rules, expanding his influence without drawing public attention.
For Farkas, sheer strength was not his primary weapon. He possessed something far more dangerous—intelligence and confidence. With both, he believed in one thing:
The Vampire Queen was no longer an unbeatable threat.
And if the ancient treaty had to be shattered to prove it, Farkas was ready to start a war long deferred.
"You should think before you act, Farkas," a cold voice echoed from the crystal orb on the desk. "Waging war against Victoria now is not wise. Withdraw your people from that place."
Farkas, tidying his hair in front of a mirror, did not respond. His hands continued moving, as if the voice did not exist.
"Did you hear me, Farkas?"
"It's time," Farkas finally answered, without looking toward the crystal orb. "Do not interfere in Lycan affairs."
The tone within the crystal shifted, growing firmer. "You need to remember one thing. Without our assistance, the Lycans would never have established themselves in New York. If we had not intervened in the past, not a single Lycan would still be alive in this city."
"That was then."
Farkas let out a low chuckle before turning fully, his gaze locking onto the crystal orb. "Our predecessors were weak wolves. Fools. Too afraid of Victoria. But I am not one of them."
"There is a reason they feared her, Farkas," the voice replied, its tension rising. "Victoria is no ordinary vampire. Her followers have existed for thousands of years. They are the elite soldiers of King Dracula."
"But that king is dead all the same," Farkas laughed loudly. "Hahaha."
Silence fell for a brief moment before the voice returned, colder—dangerous.
"I will report your actions to Maximus."
"Go ahead," Farkas replied without fear. "I want to see whether that white wolf dares to stop me."
"Farkas," the voice now sounded like a final warning. "Listen to my advice. Victoria is extremely powerful… and merciless. Once she makes a decision, there will be no mercy for the Lycan clan."
Farkas turned completely. He stepped forward and stood directly before the crystal orb, his eyes gleaming with dangerous confidence.
"I have no mercy for her either," he said softly. "Don't worry. After the war is over, I will send her head to you."
A thin smile curved his lips.
"That is… if her head is still intact."
The crystal orb trembled faintly, as if responding to the threat that had just been sealed.
**
The door to the room opened slowly. A woman in a red robe stepped inside, her head bowed in deep respect.
"Lord Helena," she said calmly, "the Elders wish to meet with you."
Helena, seated in the chair, did not respond. Her gaze remained fixed on the crystal orb atop the desk, as if the conversation that had just ended still lingered in her mind.
"Damn you, Farkas," she muttered, her voice thick with anger.
Helena's hand slammed onto the desk without warning. A cracking sound echoed as the surface split in two. She rose, her expression hardened, jaw tight, and strode toward the door.
Her steps were swift. Her lips moved slowly, murmuring words that were barely audible. Beneath the firmness, a clear anxiety shone through—one she tried to conceal.
The red-robed woman accompanying her quickened her pace immediately, moving ahead to open the door before her.