The Wolves Don't Ask

Chapter 2

Irina first saw the woman near the end of her shift, when exhaustion had settled into her bones and the ward had slipped back into its half-awake stillness. Dawn was fully up now, sunlight leaking through the high windows in thin, dusty bands. It should have felt safer in the light. It didn’t.

The woman stood near the triage desk, one hand pressed lightly to her left forearm. She wasn’t bleeding much, just a shallow cut, already clotted—but she hadn’t taken a seat like everyone else did. She hovered instead, weight shifting from foot to foot, eyes tracking every movement in the room.

Irina noticed that immediately.

“Can you sit?” Irina asked, gesturing to an empty chair.

The woman shook her head. “I’m fine standing.”

Her voice was low, steady. Too steady for someone who’d come in hurt.

Irina studied her openly. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. Dark hair pulled back messily, like it had been tied in a hurry and never fixed. She wore a heavy jacket despite the warming morning, sleeves tugged down farther than necessary. There was tension in her posture, not panic, but restraint, as if sitting still required more effort than moving.

Irina reached for gloves. “What happened?”

“Scraped it on metal,” the woman said. “At work.”

“Where do you work?”

The woman hesitated just long enough to notice. “Nights. Cleaning. Around the docks.”

Something small and cold slid down Irina’s spine.

She kept her face neutral. “I need to clean it properly.”

“I don’t need painkillers.”

“I didn’t offer any.”

The woman’s mouth twitched, almost a smile, then disappeared just as quickly. She stepped closer, offering her arm. When Irina gently pushed the sleeve up, she froze.

The cut itself was minor. What surrounded it wasn’t.

Old scars crossed the woman’s forearm in faint white lines, some straight, some jagged, some too wide to be accidents. They weren’t fresh, but they weren’t ancient either. They told a story of repeated injury and careful healing. Survival.

Irina’s fingers paused for a fraction of a second.

“You heal fast,” Irina said, not as a question.

The woman’s eyes flicked to her face, sharp. “You a doctor or a detective?”

“Just observant.”

That earned her a longer look. Measuring. Weighing.

Irina cleaned the wound slowly, deliberately. The woman didn’t flinch. Her pulse under Irina’s fingers was steady, strong. Too strong, maybe, for someone who worked nights and lived on bad sleep.

“What’s your name?” Irina asked.

“Mara.”

Irina nodded. “I’m Irina.”

They stood close, closer than necessary. Irina became acutely aware of it—the warmth of Mara’s arm, the way she smelled faintly of soap and something earthier underneath. Not unpleasant. Familiar in a way Irina couldn’t place.

“Does this happen often?” Irina asked quietly, eyes still on the scars.

Mara shrugged. “Depends what you mean by this.”

“Getting hurt.”

Mara’s jaw tightened. “I don’t come here unless I have to.”

“That suggests you’re avoiding something.”

Mara met her gaze then, eyes dark and unreadable. “Or someone.”

Irina finished bandaging the cut and stepped back. “You should keep it clean. Watch for signs of infection.”

“I will.”

Mara didn’t move to leave. She lingered, gaze drifting toward the corridor that led deeper into the hospital, toward the rooms where bodies were wheeled through under sheets.

“You work nights a lot?” Irina asked, surprising herself.

“Enough.”

“Near the docks?”

“Yes.”

The word landed heavier this time.

Irina thought of the man from hours earlier. The smell that didn’t belong. The way the wounds had looked pulled apart.

“You should be careful,” Irina said. “There’ve been… incidents.”

Mara’s eyes sharpened. “You mean the rumors.”

“I mean people getting hurt.”

A beat passed.

Mara stepped back, tugging her sleeve down again. “People get hurt everywhere.”

She turned as if to leave, then paused. “You didn’t ask for my last name.”

“I didn’t need it.”

That finally made Mara smile, small, crooked, not entirely kind. “Be careful, Irina.”

Then she was gone, boots echoing softly against the floor.

Irina stood there longer than she should have, staring at the empty space Mara had occupied. The ward felt different with her gone. Quieter, somehow. Or maybe more alert.

Later, Irina pulled up recent admissions and incident reports. It wasn’t official work. It was curiosity again, sharp and unwelcome.

Dockside injuries. Late-night ER visits. A pattern of people who came in hurt and refused to stay.

One name appeared twice.

Mara.

Not always for herself. Sometimes as the person who brought someone else in. Sometimes as a witness. Always leaving quickly. Always during the same hours. Always near the water.

Irina leaned back in her chair, fatigue forgotten.

Observation, she reminded herself. Just observation.

Yet when her shift ended and she stepped outside again, she found herself scanning the street instinctively. The fog had thinned, but it hadn’t gone. It lingered low, curling around lampposts and corners.

For a moment, she thought she saw someone standing across the street, half-hidden by shadow.

Watching.

Irina’s heart jumped, then settled when the figure moved on, disappearing into the morning crowd.

She told herself it was nothing.

Still, as she walked home, she couldn’t shake the sense that she’d crossed into something already in motion. That the woman who wouldn’t sit down wasn’t a coincidence, but a warning.

And that curiosity, once stirred, didn’t let go easily.