One report catches my attention—a wolf shifter in northern Canada that supposedly saved a lost child, leading her back to a search party before disappearing into the wilderness. The report is flagged as "unverified civilian hearsay," but it's the closest match to my own experience.
My fingers hover over the screen, a strange kinship blooming in my chest. Are there others like the wolf I encountered? Creatures that defy GUIDE's simplistic monster taxonomy?
The realization hits me with unexpected force—I want there to be others. I want proof that the wolf who saved me isn't an anomaly.
I quickly minimize the screen as footsteps approach, pulling up the chimera files instead. If anyone's tracking my search history, I'll claim I was looking at multiple entity types for pattern recognition. It’s a standard comparative analysis. It's flimsy, but plausible enough.
"Interesting reading material," Sherlock's voice comes from directly behind me, making me jump.
I swivel my chair to face him, keeping my expression neutral while my pulse hammers in my throat. "Just covering all bases." A casual shrug. Nothing to see here. Just another agent doing her job, not someone desperately searching for answers to questions she shouldn’t even be asking.
"Wolf shifters?" He gestures to my now-closed screen, his timing perfect as always. "I thought we were focusing on chimeras."
Dammit. I wasn’t fast enough.
"We are." I open one of the chimera files to cover my tracks. "Just cross-referencing behaviors across different types of shapeshifters. Could be relevant to the chimera case—my case." I emphasize the last two words, a small act of defiance.
He moves to the desk next to mine, favoring his left side where the chimera struck him in Rome. Like Ghost, he's still on restricted duty too.
"Interesting angle." He lowers himself carefully into the chair. "Hayes asked me to keep an eye on you, make sure you're not pushing yourself too hard."
The words sound concerned, but his eyes are cold, analytical. I've seen that look before—when he's examining evidence at a crime scene. When he's looking for inconsistencies in witness statements.
He's looking at me like a puzzle to solve.
I meet his gaze with practiced casualness, but inside, my thoughts race. Does he suspect what I am? Is he here to confirm suspicions he's harbored for years? Or is this just Sherlock being Sherlock—observant to a fault, but not yet connecting the dots that would lead to my execution?
"I'm fine," I say, shifting away slightly. "Just doing my research. While strangers work my case in the field and we're all stuck here pushing papers."
"Not all of us mind the desk time," he says, adjusting his position to ease the discomfort in his ribs. "Gives us a chance to think. Connect dots that might get missed in the rush of field work."
The implication hangs in the air between us. He's using this downtime to build his case against me.
"Rossi contacted us about the chimeras this morning," he drops this casually, watching for my reaction. "Said he'd only talk to the lead agent on the case. Specifically requested you."
That stops me cold. Genuine surprise breaks through my careful mask, but I let it… It's the expected reaction, the natural one. A normal agent would be surprised by this information.
"Is he coming to headquarters?" I let a controlled amount of urgency color my voice. Enough to show professional interest without revealing how desperately I need this lead. I shift slightly in my chair, turning to face Sherlock fully—a deliberate move that both appears natural and gives me better control over what he can see.
"Tomorrow morning. Nine AM, secure interview room three." Sherlock straightens, wincing slightly at the movement. "I'll be observing, of course."
Of course he will. Because nothing in my life can ever be simple.
"Looking forward to it," I lie, moving past him toward the door. My fingers twitch at my sides, itching to slam something—anything—to release the pressure building in my chest. But control is survival. One hallway, two turns, then I can breathe again.
"Astrid." His use of my first name stops me cold. "You went after that wolf alone, in the dark, without backup. Either incredibly brave or incredibly reckless."
"Just doing my job." Reckless and brave, but I’m not going to tell him that.
"Are you?" He raises an eyebrow. "You're our team lead, Mathieson. We rely on your judgment. Your... consistency."
The subtle emphasis on that last word makes my skin crawl. Not just unease. But a visceral dread that slithers up my spine like ice water. He knows something's off. The question is how much.
"You sure everything's okay?" he presses.
"I'm fine," I repeat, keeping my voice steady. "Just frustrated about being sidelined on my own case."
"You’re lucky you made it back at all," he says, the word 'lucky' hanging between us like an accusation. "Rabid wolves aren't known for letting their prey escape."
