Bethany
By late afternoon the packhouse grows quieter.
Not empty, never empty, but restrained. Wolves drifting back from duties, conversations softening, energy folding inward.
This is the hour when people stop performing.
Which is why I wait for it.
I move through the halls slowly, heels quiet against the floor. My scent is familiar enough to be comforting, controlled enough not to attract attention.
Every step is intentional.
Every glance measured.
They don’t know they’re being tested.
They never do.
I pause beside one of the patrol wolves near the logistics board. Reliable. Order-driven. The kind who usually responds to tone before thinking.
“Long day,” I say lightly.
He straightens immediately.
Good.
“Did you finish the patrol logs last night,” I continue, conversational
