Urban Hidden Wolf

Rain hammered down on the abandoned night market's tin roofs like a million steel pellets. Fang Yan tugged his black raincoat hood lower. His police badge glinted faintly at his collar – bailiff, Municipal Bureau. That was his daytime identity. Beneath the raincoat, pressed against his skin, his silver gauntlet grew uncomfortably warm – the shackle of his nights. Three days ago, the local precinct got a call. A torn scrap of fabric with claw marks was found in a dumpster behind the market. Blood tests confirmed human origin. But by the time the coroner arrived, the body was gone. Captain Chen had clapped him on the shoulder. "Fang, you've got unconventional sources. Go sniff around." What Captain Chen didn't say was the recent rumors of wolf howls in the district. Fang Yan knew they weren't just stray dogs. Rain dripped from his hood down his neck. Fang Yan’s nose suddenly twitched. He crouched, gloved finger tracing the seam between paving stones. Washed by the rain, a dark red stain was seeping up from beneath a loose tile. His werewolf senses were dulled sevenfold by the silver, but the residual smell still tightened his throat: shredded raw meat mixed with iron rust. He gripped the edge of the tile, knuckles whitening. A sharp sting shot through the silver gauntlet’s fingertip – his claws stirring beneath the skin. Fang Yan closed his eyes. Ten years ago, during his first transformation, he’d raked five deep gashes into the orphanage bathroom mirror. Old Fang, his foster father, had tapped his knuckles with a silver spoon. "Xiao Yan, this isn't a monster's power. It's meant to uphold the rules." The tile lifted. A wave of damp rot and blood hit him. Fang Yan pulled his heavy-duty flashlight. Its beam cut down crumbling steps, revealing cobwebs in the walls – and fresh rubber boot prints. Someone had been down here within the last three hours. The space below was larger than expected. The smell of mildew mingled with sweat and the clang of metal. Fang Yan edged along the wall, rounding a concrete pillar. Chaos exploded before him. A fighting pit. Inside a circular steel cage, a girl in a ripped hoodie pressed back against the bars. Three tattooed thugs advanced with steel pipes. Her left cheek was swollen, her right ear missing a chunk. But when one swung his pipe at her knee, she coiled like a stepped-on cat. Her knee snapped up, cracking against his throat. "Yes!" someone roared from the stands, slamming a table. "Xiao Qi's got bite!" Fang Yan’s pupils narrowed. The girl landed with her weight low, on the balls of her feet – like a wolf readying for another pounce. More crucially, a faint blue claw-mark scar marred her neck. It matched the totem markings he’d seen at the wolf den ruins when he was twelve. "Boss Zhao, that guy's been lurking." Fang Yan’s back tensed. He’d clocked the scar-faced man earlier. Now, Zhao Jiu, a two-decade veteran of the underworld who'd taken over this market three months ago, fixed him with a stare like a nail. Captain Chen said Zhao’s gambling dens had recently added "variant fights," rumored to involve illegal gene enhancers. But every raid only turned up ordinary gambling gear. "Take him alive," Zhao Jiu flicked cigarette ash. "Break his legs. Toss him in the back alley for the dogs." Seven or eight thugs surged from beneath the stands, steel pipes whistling through the air. Fang Yan stepped back, his spine hitting the cage bars. His hand found the collapsible baton hidden under his raincoat. But when the first pipe swung at his temple, his body moved before his mind – sidestepped – snapped the wrist – twisted the joint. The sequence was a blur. "s**t! This guy's trained!" A second pipe swept towards his ribs. Fang Yan spun away but missed the third man flanking him. The knife pierced his left arm. He heard the faint c***k of bone. Agony shot up his spine. A seam on the silver gauntlet split – his nails were darkening, lengthening, like something alive chewing its way out. "Grrr—" A low, guttural growl rumbled in his chest. Red mist clouded Fang Yan’s vision. His senses sharpened painfully – he could count the sparks on Zhao Jiu’s cigarette ten paces away; the thugs’ breaths sounded like war drums. He looked at his left hand. Claws, sharp and cold as steel, had shredded the gauntlet, dripping blood. This hadn’t happened since he’d killed that stray dog in the orphanage alley a decade ago. "Monster!" someone shrieked, scrambling back. Fang Yan ground his teeth. His foster mother’s cough echoed in his ears. Su Heng’s text from last night flashed in his mind: Old Fang sneaked off to buy cabbages at the market again. Says he’s making you turnip soup. He couldn’t expose himself. Couldn’t let them become "monster family." He grabbed the nearest cage chain. His claws punched through the metal. Muscles bunched – SNAP! The chain breaking cut through the noise. The cage door crashed down. Bettors screamed, stampeding for the exits. Fang Yan seized the closest thug as a shield, claws pricking the man’s neck artery. "Move!" Zhao Jiu’s scarred face twisted in the chaos. "After him! Dead or alive!" Fang Yan kicked chairs aside. His peripheral vision caught a small cage in the corner – Lin Xiaoqi, chained, staring at him with her one good eye. Her lips moved. Amid the din, he caught the words: "Save me." He tore a corner off his coroner’s ID, shoved it through the cage bars. Rain smeared the blood on the scrap bearing his name – "Fang Yan" – like a withered plum blossom. Rain still hammered. Fang Yan slid into his battered Jetta parked in the alley. The door locks clicked. Instantly, his claws retracted. He yanked off the ruined silver gauntlet, tossing it onto the passenger seat. The wound on his left arm was visibly knitting, muscles crawling beneath the skin like ants. "Damn it." He wiped rainwater from his face, fished a silver pendant from the glove compartment – Old Fang’s dying gift, meant to "suppress the dark nature." Pressing it to his chest lessened the stinging pain; his pupils slowly rounded from slits. In the rearview mirror, a security camera atop the market building swiveled towards him. Its red light blinked through the downpour like an unblinking eye. Fang Yan started the engine. Wipers smeared b****y rainwater across the windshield into crimson streaks. His phone showed three missed calls from Su Heng. Her last text, thirty minutes ago: Roads are slick. Come home soon. He hit redial, listening to the ring, stuffing the bloodied raincoat into the trunk. The wipers kept sweeping, blurring the red camera light in the mirror into a haze. The street was deserted at 3 AM. The Jetta’s taillights trailed twin red smears in the rain. Fang Yan touched the silver pendant. Beneath it, against his skin, the faint blue wolf-head birthmark burned – his "fate," as Old Fang called it. He knew one thing for certain now. Some things, starting tonight, could no longer remain hidden.