Alcyde
The Council's black SUVs arrive at dawn like harbingers of judgment, their pristine paint jobs an insult to our mud-splattered territory. I watch from my office window as three investigators emerge—two junior bureaucrats clutching tablets and one senior official whose presence makes my wolf bare its teeth.
Investigator Damien Holt, six-foot-three of political ambition wrapped in a thousand-dollar suit, surveys our compound like he's already calculating its resale value.
"They're here," Billy Joe announces from my doorway, though we both know I've been watching for the past ten minutes. He's wearing his good flannel, the one without bloodstains, which for Billy Joe constitutes formal wear. "Anson's still in his office. Hasn't moved since yesterday."
"Drunk?"
"Surprisingly, no. J
