DANTE
The warehouse district breathes copper and antiseptic, a combination that makes my wolf pace beneath too-human skin. Abandoned buildings stretch like broken teeth against Portland's skyline, each one a potential grave for the healers they've stolen. Mike's intel pointed us here—thermal signatures that shouldn't exist, electrical draws that speak of medical equipment running where industry died.
"Third building from the corner." Eric's voice crackles through the earpiece. "Guards at every entrance. Professional setup."
Professional. The word tastes of government contracts and black budgets. Through our bond, I feel Sadie's presence back at the compound—distant, muted by something that makes my chest tight. She's been off for days, her usual fire banking to embers. This morning she
