Howl for Justice

A Mask of Control Part 2

The lock clicks behind me, each sound an echoing note of freedom. I inhale the promise of the morning and the heavy shroud of Derek’s latest message unfurls in the back of my mind. I will not think about it, about him, until I must. The weight of obligation falls away as I step forward, closing the distance between my private sanctuary and the public world that waits hungrily to devour me.

This is the moment I savor most: the quiet breath before the plunge, when everything feels suspended in its rightful place, and I am untethered by the demands that await me. For a heartbeat, I stand in the hallway, feeling the tension in my muscles uncoil, the predatory strength of my limbs thrumming beneath the enforced stillness of my posture. It is a wild, exhilarating sensation—brief, ephemeral, like the flare of instinct that accompanies it.

Then I move, and the certainty of my stride leaves an indelible mark on the day.

The elevator hums in response to my call, the soft whirring of its approach the only sound in the morning hush. A flash of my reflection catches in the polished metal doors, a split-second glimpse of a woman who commands the space around her with absolute authority. I lean into the sight, letting the cold sheen of the glass imprint itself on my memory, a talisman against the doubts and fears that linger in my shadow.

The lobby is deserted at this early hour, the security desk unmanned and the lights dimmed to a hushed, intimate glow. My footsteps echo on the marble floor, the acoustics amplifying my presence and reinforcing the power that I bring with me. Even without an audience, I walk with the assurance of someone accustomed to being watched, every movement deliberate and precise.

A single, defiant streak of sunlight slips through the blinds, painting a warm, golden path across the sterile perfection of the tile. It pools around my feet as I cross the threshold, the glow of it tracing the sharp, clean lines of my silhouette with indulgent languor. I imagine, for a moment, that it will leave an impression of me behind: an afterimage of warmth, softened at the edges by its own desire.

I step out into the brisk morning air, feeling the city rouse itself in slow, languorous increments. The streets are muted still, cloaked in a gentle shroud of mist and half-light. It is my favorite time of day, when the world is held in suspension and I am a part of it yet apart from it, separate and serene in my self-made exile.

The driver watches from his seat, ready to spring into action the moment I nod his way. He knows me well enough to expect that I will not; it is part of the game we play, a rehearsed pretense of anticipation that neither of us believes.

I walk.

The rhythmic staccato of my heels sets the pace, grounding me in the tangible reality of the moment. I am alive to every sensation: the soft whisper of fog brushing my cheeks, the cool bite of air beneath my collar, the smooth glide of silk as it clings to my skin with intimate familiarity. Each step carries me closer to the world I have made my own, each breath drawing me further from the confines of the one I was born into.

The contrast invigorates me. I embrace it, letting the duality of my existence pulse in time with my stride.

For the first time this morning, I allow myself to think of Derek. The message was cryptic, designed to bait my curiosity and goad my patience. I recognize his technique as surely as if I had crafted it myself, know that it is a challenge as much as a plea.

We need to talk. It's important.

A lesser man would simply say what he wanted; Derek's needs are more complex. They always have been. He revels in intrigue and ambiguity, turning even the simplest of conversations into a convoluted labyrinth of hidden meanings and unspoken implications. The urge to dismiss him is strong, almost instinctive, but curiosity tempers it with the knowledge that Derek, when ignored, is more dangerous than I care to admit.

My heels echo against the pavement, a punctuation to the thought. I will see him eventually. I always do.

I find myself in the park, a small oasis carved from the relentless concrete of the city. It is a detour, an indulgence I rarely permit, but the cool, damp earth beneath the soles of my shoes and the delicate trace of pollen on the air draw me in, ensnaring my senses with promises I cannot refuse. The path winds through lush tangles of green and gold, a dense and fragrant overgrowth that invites wildness to flourish even here, in the heart of my meticulously structured life.

For a moment, I imagine losing myself in it, slipping from the trail to vanish into the unruly abundance beyond. The fantasy is alluring in its impossibility, and I feel a tug of resistance as I force myself to turn back, a tethered wolf straining at the length of its chain.

In the distance, the outline of my office cuts a sharp, familiar silhouette against the waking sky. It draws me back with magnetic inevitability, reminding me of the reason for my resolve, the anchor that keeps me from drifting too far beyond the borders of what I have built. There is power in the deliberate constriction of my nature, a force that sharpens and hones itself with each moment of restraint.

I will be Mara Wolfe, today and always. I will walk the line between these two lives, between this freedom and the control I crave. It is a path I have chosen. It is a path I will not leave.

The crosswalk sign flashes red as I approach, an unwavering command to stop, to wait, to hold. I heed it, just this once. There is no harm in pausing when I know what lies ahead.

The penthouse is a world apart from the one I now move through, but I carry pieces of it with me, fragments of luxury and silence that adorn me as surely as the jewels at my ears and throat. They are reminders of the things I cannot, or will not, let go. I wear them with the same studied care as the rest of my trappings, knowing that they bind me as much as they adorn me.

In the courtyard, a gardener pauses to watch my progress, his fingers still buried in the dark, loamy soil. I meet his gaze with unflinching directness, absorbing the flash of surprise as he realizes who I am. The recognition is immediate, unmistakable, and I continue on with a faint smile curving my lips.

I pass through the front doors of my building, entering with the fluid, self-assured grace of someone who has never known rejection. The woman at the desk greets me with wide eyes and a timid "Good morning, Ms. Wolfe," as if the mere act of addressing me were an act of bravery.

I incline my head in response, a regal nod that acknowledges both her presence and her audacity. The lift awaits me, its doors held open by a young man whose ID badge dangles precariously from the edge of his collar.

He presses the button for my floor without being asked, then glances sideways with a poorly concealed mixture of curiosity and awe. "I didn't know you were coming in today," he says, an implicit question hidden in the statement.

I consider ignoring him, then decide that I am feeling magnanimous. "I like to keep you guessing," I reply, letting a hint of warmth color the words. It is enough to startle him into a grin, one that fades into embarrassed silence as the doors slide shut between us.

I am alone now, encased in glass and steel, suspended between what I was and what I will be. The final seconds before my arrival stretch and elongate, filled with the hum of machinery and the sound of my own breath.

I step out as the doors part, my reflection splitting and fracturing with my movement. There are many Mara Wolfes. I am all of them.

I am the wolf, even in tailored business attire. It waits inside me, prowling, hungry, watching through my eyes and feeling through my skin. The city pulses beneath me, unaware of the predator above.

The rooftop stretches out like a deserted landscape, its expanse barren except for the distant glint of the antenna, a needle pointing to the swelling moon. My lungs burn with exertion and anticipation, my pulse hammering with the rhythm of something I cannot fully contain. The freedom is intoxicating, the threat of it sharper than the chilled night air.

I stand on the ledge, the entire city sprawling out in a sea of distant, flickering lights. My instincts sharpen, and everything is more: the wet tang of rain-soaked concrete, the acrid scent of a distant cigarette, the rumble of traffic far below. Each detail is amplified, absorbed into the marrow of my bones and the beat of my blood.

I will not break. I will not lose myself.

But the wolf is closer than it has ever been, a persistent shadow beneath the thin veneer of my control. I feel it stretch inside me, a tension coiling tighter with each breath. My own breath. The wolf's breath. The two are indistinguishable, two threads of the same primal urge that threatens to unravel all that I have built.

The pulse of the city echoes in my head, a syncopated lullaby that urges me to surrender. I know its song by heart, have hummed along to its melody since the first time I stood on a rooftop like this, defiant and desperate and so impossibly young.

It will not have me.

The wolf disagrees.

I begin to pace, the staccato click of my heels echoing against the metal and stone. Each step a defiance, a reminder that I am still in control. Each step a concession, a nod to the duality that threatens to fracture my careful composure. I cannot keep up with myself, moving faster and faster until the thin layer of humanity sloughs off in rivulets of sweat, soaking through the silk of my blouse and the wool of my suit jacket.

I reach for the wall to steady myself, the concrete scraping the skin of my palms. The sensation jolts through me, sharp and electrifying, a crackling reminder that I am still here, still in this form.

The horizon stretches out before me, an open mouth waiting to devour. It dares me to jump, to run, to let the night and the wildness take me. I am the only one who stands in the way, the only thing holding myself back from the transformation that looms inevitable as the changing of the tides.

I will not lose. I will not give in.

And yet, and yet.

There is a freedom in it, a temptation that digs claws deep into my resolve and leaves it ragged and bleeding. I have spent a lifetime restraining the urge, tightening the leash until it bites into my own flesh. But the promise of release is a seductive whisper, its breath warm against my neck, its lips shaping a word I refuse to hear.

Run.

For a moment, I close my eyes, imagining what it would feel like to surrender, to cast off the trappings of humanity and let the wildness of my true nature consume me. I see myself leap from the ledge, feet striking the pavement below in a sprint, limbs unfurling with unchecked speed, power gathering in each long stride as I disappear into the dark heart of the city.

I know better than to open the door. I know better than to let the beast out of its cage.

I force myself to stand still, motionless as the sky fills with deep, nocturnal blue. The moon watches, a voyeuristic eye leering from between heavy clouds. It knows what I am. It has always known.

My fingers find the delicate chain around my neck, the smooth metal of the locket cooling my feverish skin. I draw comfort from its presence, from the reassurance that I am still this woman, still the one who commands boardrooms and courthouses with iron resolve. The illusion is fragile, but it is mine.

In the distance, a siren wails. Tires screech against asphalt, a voice yells obscenities into the night. The city's symphony swells and crashes around me, a cacophonous testament to my struggle. It is too much, too loud, too bright, too vibrant, a kaleidoscope of sensation that hammers at the tenuous walls I have built.

I stumble to the edge of the roof, breathless from the exertion of remaining in this form. My muscles twitch and shudder beneath the confining fabric of my suit, urging me to shed the layers that bind me to this fragile, fallible self. I clench my teeth against the pain and press forward, digging my nails into my palms to ground myself in something solid and unchanging.

But the ground shifts beneath me, slipping like sand through my fingers, and I teeter on the brink of losing everything.

No. Not tonight.

I wrench my mind away from the lure of instinct, anchoring myself in the memories of a life spent perfecting this facade. A polished resume, a gleaming office, the respectful awe of clients and competitors alike. I force myself to remember the late nights, the sacrifices, the cost of becoming the woman I am. The strength of my grip on this identity is the only thing that will save me.

But the grip is loosening, weakening with every rapid heartbeat.

The wolf strains against its chains, gnashing at the tenuous threads that keep it bound to my will. I feel it slip through the cracks, feel the hot, heady rush of instinct as it seizes me in a stranglehold of yearning. I gasp against the onslaught, the desire to shift washing over me with an urgency I cannot fight.

I dig my heels into the ground, digging myself into the shape I am trying to hold. My vision blurs and then sharpens, colors fracturing into a thousand vivid shades, my senses unfurling with breathless abandon. It would be so easy. So easy to give in.

But I am Mara Wolfe. And I do not lose.

The moon hangs heavy, gloating and bright. Its promise is vast and empty, a threat that rattles through me with bone-deep resonance. I will not let it win. I have never let it win.

I breathe, forcing each lungful of air past the narrowing bands of panic that constrict my chest. I breathe, and the edges of the world begin to blur, to soften. The wolf inside me paces, furious but caged, its restless energy battering my bones but leaving me, for the moment, intact.

I breathe, and the night collapses around me.

The first trace of dawn edges the horizon, softening the hard line of the skyline. I stand alone on the rooftop, arms wrapped around myself to hold everything in. A single, hoarse sound escapes my lips, the echo of something between a laugh and a cry. I am the wolf. I am not the wolf. I am both, and neither.

My hands shake as I smooth my hair back into place, as I wipe the sweat from my brow and the fear from my eyes. My suit clings to me, wrinkled and damp, but I wear it with the fragile, fraying dignity of a woman who has nothing left to lose.

I step away from the edge.

I am Mara Wolfe, and I am still here.