XXVI
“Alpha Daxon!” Someone burst through the door, a man with the insignia of the Beta and his eyes wild. He stopped when he saw us, his face paling. “What… what’s going on?” The office was sleek but lived-in. Recessed lighting cast a soft glow over matte black walls, broken only by digital screens displaying pack territories and surveillance feeds. A subtle hum came from the air purifier tucked behind a filing cabinet, its blue light blinking steadily. The Alpha’s desk was a slab of dark wood with a built-in touchscreen interface, cluttered with open tablets, styluses, and a half-empty bottle of bourbon. A pair of wireless earbuds lay beside a stack of printed reports, some marked with red ink and others coffee-stained at the corners. “They are delegates from the Guardian pack,” the Alpha
- Writer
