Urban Hidden Wolf

Chapter 4: Cracks in the Silver

Fang Yan’s knuckles pressed against the edge of the sink, bone-white under the strain.

The man in the mirror had bloodshot eyes, the edges of his irises rimmed with thin, vertical streaks of gold—like amber melted under fire. He yanked off the silver pendant around his neck. The metal was webbed with cracks, and when he brought it closer, the acrid scent of burnt metal stung his nostrils—the smell of wolf’s blood scorching silver.

Snap.

The chain broke in his fingers.

He stared at the pendant in his palm. A faint blue mist seeped from the cracks, scalding his skin like boiling water. Then, the back of his neck burned. The wolf-head tattoo beneath his shirt throbbed, the lines shifting as if alive. In the mirror, the beast’s eyes gleamed with an eerie light.

“Damn it,” he muttered, tossing the pendant into the trash.

The first-aid kit sat on the cabinet behind him. The moment the alcohol swab touched the claw marks on his forearm, the wounds sealed shut, fresh skin swallowing the blood before it could even bead. He watched as his fingernails lengthened—translucent, grayish-blue, edges sharp enough to score tile. These weren’t ordinary wolf claws. They were bone claws, the kind Old Fang had once told him only appeared when a Wolf King’s bloodline awakened.

Outside, the moon hung bright, casting the window frame’s shadow across the floor like a silver chain.

He remembered the first time his wolf nature had surfaced at twelve, under a full moon just like this. He’d lost control in an alley, slashing a bully who’d tormented him. Old Fang had melted down an ancestral wolf-bone dagger to forge him a silver pendant that night, saying it would suppress the “savagery” in his blood.

But now, after ten years, the silver had cracked.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Su Heng’s name flashed on the screen.

He took a slow breath, forcing the heat in his throat to settle. When he answered, his voice was steady. “Heng Heng?”

“I’m working late at the hospital,” her voice carried the sterile chill of disinfectant. “Last surgery ends at 3 AM. If you’re awake… come get me?”

He glanced at his bloodshot reflection, yanked on a turtleneck. “Give me ten minutes.”

The corridors of City General Hospital were unnaturally quiet at this hour, the scent of antiseptic mingling with coffee.

Su Heng dozed on a bench outside the operating room, her white coat draped over her lap, strands of hair flecked with dried blood—leftover from the car crash victim she’d just stitched back together.

Fang Yan could hear her heartbeat from three steps away, steady and slow, a rhythm that soothed the restlessness under his skin.

“You’re here?” She didn’t open her eyes, just tapped her knee. “I can smell your mint soap.”

He sat beside her, the warmth of her shoulder bleeding through the fabric. “Rough surgery?”

“Ruptured spleen,” she finally looked up, dark circles under her eyes. “Patient lost over three liters of blood before we got him.” Suddenly, her fingers brushed his cheek, cold as ice. “You’re burning up.”

The tattoo on his neck flared. He forced himself not to flinch. “Probably caught a chill last night.”

“Liar.” Her thumb grazed the tip of his ear—red and feverish. “Last time you ran a fever was at sixteen, when you drank yourself half-dead shielding me from those assholes at the bar.” She stood, her coat slipping to the floor. “Come to the exam room. Let me check your temp.”

He followed her down the hall. But as they passed Dr. Shen Huaiyuan’s office, a wave of dizziness hit.

His temples throbbed as if pierced by needles. Heat surged from his neck to his skull, and a familiar scent flooded his nose—metallic, tinged with rust-sweet decay. The same stench from the corpse at the fighting pits.

“Fang Yan?” Su Heng turned back.

He forced a smile. “Tripped.” The moment she rounded the corner, he ducked into an air vent.

The metal dug into his ribs as he curled into the tight space, letting the cold air rush over his skin. But the heat only worsened. His bones cracked, something deep in his marrow fighting to break free.

The vent overlooked Shen Huaiyuan’s office window.

Through the slats, he saw a half-open desk drawer, files peeking out. One was labeled in red ink: W-07—identical to the tattoo on the dead man’s chest.

Buzz.

His phone lit up with an anonymous text—a voice recording.

“The power of the Mark is awakening… Beware the ‘Observers.’”

The synthesized voice grated like nails on chalkboard. He clenched the phone, and just like that, the heat receded.

Footsteps echoed outside the vent. He held his breath as Shen Huaiyuan entered the office, his white coat smudged with a strange, brownish stain—not blood, but something Fang Yan had never smelled before.

“Mr. Fang?”

Su Heng’s voice carried down the hall.

By the time he slid out of the vent, his back was drenched in sweat. Shen’s office curtains were drawn now, but not before he’d caught the doctor murmuring to empty air: “Target’s wolf fluctuations are abnormal. Recommend initiating Phase Two observation.”

The break room door was ajar.

Su Heng’s coat hung over a chair, a drawer slightly open. Inside, a corner of yellowed paper peeked out.

Almost against his will, Fang Yan pulled it free—his own medical record from age sixteen. Under Symptoms, it read: “Persistent high fever with joint pain.” The notes were scribbled in harsh strokes: “Metabolic anomaly. Long-term monitoring advised.”

The signature belonged to Su Heng’s father, Professor Su.

“Find anything interesting?”

The paper slipped from his fingers.

Su Heng stood in the doorway, two mugs of cocoa steaming in her hands, the vapor softening her sharp gaze. “My dad’s handwriting is atrocious, isn’t it?”

He bent to retrieve the record, but her fingers closed over his. Cold, but steady.

“When you were sixteen, you burned up for three days at our house. Dad thought it was leukemia. He drew your blood without telling you.” Her thumb traced the old scar on his wrist. “Later, he said your blood had… an unusual enzyme.”

His phone buzzed again.

He pulled away, opening the new message—a photo of the W-07 file from Shen’s office. The name on the record was clearly printed: Lin Xiaoqi.

“Fang Yan.” Su Heng’s voice wavered. “You’re pulling away from me.”

He looked up. At the end of the hall, Shen Huaiyuan stood watching, his coat flaring in the draft, eyes gleaming like a wolf’s in the dark.

“Come with me for a check-up tomorrow,” Fang Yan pressed her palm to his chest, his heartbeat wild beneath her fingers. “I think… it’s time I got some tests done.”

Shen’s silhouette vanished down the stairs.

Fang Yan stared after him, saving the W-07 photo to his most hidden folder. Outside, the moon dipped toward the horizon, but the tattoo on his neck burned hotter than ever—a fire threatening to sear through flesh.