Urban Hidden Wolf

Chapter 2 The Moonlight Is Not Bright

Morning light filtered through the curtains as Fang Yan crouched before the hidden compartment in the bottom drawer of his wardrobe.

He rolled up the bloodstained black jacket and stuffed it into a vacuum-sealed bag meant for winter quilts. The hum of the air pump drowned out the soft clinking of a porcelain spoon stirring a clay pot in the kitchen—his foster mother was making congee again.

"Xiao Yan?"

The door creaked open a sliver. The old woman peered in, her gray-streaked hair loosely tied back, reading glasses perched on her nose. A few splatters of rice water dotted her apron.

Fang Yan’s fingers paused on the compression bag. He quickly shut the wardrobe and stood, his bangs damp with cold sweat. "Ma, why are you up so early?"

"You think I can’t wake with the sun?" She sniffed, turning back toward the kitchen, her cough deliberately muffled. "Heard you come in last night—your rain boots splashed all over the entryway." She lifted the lid of the pot, steam curling up with the sweet scent of millet. "Come here. Let me see your arm."

Fang Yan clenched his jaw.

The wound from the chain in the fighting pit had already healed, but beneath the skin, his muscles still burned faintly, like embers rolling through his veins.

He rolled up his left sleeve casually, revealing unmarked skin. "See? Fine."

"Liar." The old woman suddenly reached out, her rough palm pressing against the inside of his elbow.

Fang Yan stiffened—there, hidden, was a faint blue bruise the size of a coin, left behind when his bones had shifted during transformation. "Last time, you said you fell. I believed you. The month before, you blamed the table corner. I believed that too." Her thumb brushed over the discoloration, her voice suddenly hoarse. "But Xiao Yan… do you really think your mother’s gone senile?"

The bubbling of the congee grew loud in the silence.

Fang Yan’s throat tightened as he caught the glimmer of tears in the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.

He knelt, taking her hands—still dusted with rice flour—in his. "I promise. This is the last time."

"Last time?" She pulled away, turning back to ladle the congee. "You said that last month." But she buried four honeyed dates in his bowl—his favorite since childhood.

Fang Yan held the bowl, watching sunlight fracture into gold flakes on its surface.

When his phone buzzed in his pocket, he nearly dropped it—Su Heng’s name flashed on the screen, the green call button glaringly bright.

"Fang Yan, can you talk?" Her voice was lower than usual, the background noise unmistakably a hospital hallway. "A nurse just told me someone left a package in my office. No sender info…"

His spoon clinked sharply against the bowl.

He stood, moving to the balcony, sliding the glass door shut behind him to muffle the sounds of his mother cleaning up. "What’s inside?"

"A red ticket. And a note." Her breath hitched. "It says… ‘You’re not the first monster.’"

The morning wind carried mist through the balcony, raising goosebumps on Fang Yan’s neck.

He stared at the camphor tree below, raindrops still clinging to the leaves, glittering like shards of glass in the sunlight. "Lock it in your desk. I’ll pick you up after work."

"Fang Yan." Su Heng’s voice was feather-light. "Are you… keeping something from me?"

His grip on the phone turned his knuckles white. "We’ll talk in person."

When he hung up, his mother was stretching on her tiptoes to put pickled radishes on the top shelf of the fridge.

Fang Yan took them from her, watching her hunched back. Suddenly, he remembered that stormy night twelve years ago—his first transformation, when he’d torn through the orphanage’s iron gates. This woman in her blue cotton dress had wrapped her arms around his trembling body and whispered, "Come home with me."

"I’m heading to work." He kissed her forehead. "I’ll bring Hengheng back for dinner."

"Good." She wiped her hands on her apron, pulling out an oil-paper packet. "Osmanthus cakes for her. Freshly steamed."

The courthouse hallway reeked of disinfectant.

When Fang Yan pushed open the coroner’s office door, Captain Chen was leaning against the autopsy table, smoking, his police cap tilted. His gaze was sharp as a blade. "Fang. You missed last night’s surprise roll call. Phone was off?"

Fang Yan hung up his uniform jacket, deliberate in his movements. "Fell in the rain. Just charged it this morning." He pulled on rubber gloves, approaching the table. The victim was a young man, four deep gashes raked across his chest. "Captain, these wounds are interesting."

Chen stubbed out his cigarette, frowning. "How so?"

"Ordinary blades don’t curve like this." Fang Yan hovered his fingers above the injuries, his heightened senses catching a metallic tang—not blood, but the residue of prolonged contact with metal. "Almost like… an animal’s claws."

Chen’s eyes flicked to his left hand.

Fang Yan pretended not to notice, using forceps to lift a bone fragment. "Fracture pattern suggests the victim was struggling when this happened." He met Chen’s gaze with a faint smile. "You’re not suspecting I skipped work to kill someone, are you?"

Chen chuckled, clapping his shoulder. "Kid, if I can’t trust you, who can I trust?" But as he left, his boots scraped the floor with deliberate force.

At lunch, Fang Yan slipped into the used bookstore in the back alley.

The owner, Old Zhou, was sorting magazines on the floor. Seeing him, he quickly bolted the door. "Asked around like you wanted." His voice dropped, eyes darting. "Zhao Jiu’s been sneaking to the southern docks, meeting some guy in sunglasses. My contact says the guy wears a silver bracelet with a moon engraving."

Fang Yan’s nails dug half-moons into his palm. "Any photos?"

"Too risky." Old Zhou rubbed his hands. "Dock’s crawling with Zhao’s men. My guy barely got out." He slid a USB drive from under the counter. "Perimeter footage from the fighting pit. See for yourself."

Fang Yan pocketed the drive, pressing a hundred-yuan bill on the table.

Old Zhou pushed it back. "Consider it payback. That drunk who cornered my daughter… if you hadn’t—" He cut himself off, returning to his books.

At the end of his shift, Fang Yan found Su Heng under the hospital’s plane tree.

She stood in her white coat, wind tugging at the hem, revealing the light blue dress beneath—the one he’d given her last birthday, saying it matched her eyes.

"Get in." He opened the passenger door, offering the oil-paper packet. "Ma made osmanthus cakes."

Su Heng didn’t take it.

Instead, she grasped his left hand, her thumb brushing over the faint scar on his knuckles—left by the chain he’d snapped last night. "Who are you?" Her voice trembled. "Last week, you said you were working late, but when I went to the station, I saw you coming up from the garage, your sleeve dripping blood. Two days ago, you said you had a fever, but your skin burned like coal…"

Fang Yan’s throat locked.

He tried to pull away, but she held tighter.

Su Heng looked up, tears glistening. "I’m a doctor. I’ve seen every kind of wound. But yours… heal too fast."

The wind gusted between them.

Fang Yan stared at the beauty mark by her eye, remembering twelve-year-old Su Heng pressing a handkerchief to his bleeding head after he’d taken a brick for her. "I’ll be a doctor," she’d said. "So you’ll never hurt again."

"Hengheng," he whispered. "Just a little more time."

She released him, unwrapping the cakes.

The scent of osmanthus bloomed between them. She took a bite, suddenly smiling. "Your mother’s cooking is still the best." But Fang Yan saw the tear clinging to her lashes, catching the sunset’s glow before vanishing into the sugar-dusted cake.

Dinner was lively.

His mother piled Su Heng’s bowl high, chattering about the market’s latest gossip. Su Heng laughed along, but Fang Yan knew she was watching him—his wrists when he reached for dishes, his throat when he sipped soup, every minute movement.

Late that night, Fang Yan lay on the living room sofa.

His mother’s snores drifted from her room. Su Heng slept in the guest room, the door slightly ajar, a sliver of warm light spilling out.

He pulled the USB drive from his pocket and headed for the entryway.

The hallway light flickered on beneath his steps.

Fang Yan stared at the security camera in the stairwell, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

He pressed Old Fang’s silver pendant to his chest—where the wolf-head birthmark burned like a brand.

His phone screen lit up with a message from Old Zhou: "Dock footage’s gone. But the camera on the night market’s roof might still have it."

Fang Yan plugged in the drive. The video showed rain still hammering down.

There he stood in the footage, claws glinting coldly under the storm, the crowd recoiling in terror.

When the camera zoomed in, his pupils were slitted—clear as a blade’s edge.

Outside, the moon climbed higher.

Fang Yan looked at his own reflection on the screen and smiled.

He ejected the drive, tucked his phone into his inner pocket, and turned toward the stairs.

Tonight, the wind carried the scent of iron.