"Of course," he agrees easily, pouring coffee into the thermos cap.
For the next hour, we watch in silence. The sun sets completely, streetlights flickering on across the complex. I maintain my professional focus, documenting every movement of the hellhounds in my mental log, but I'm acutely aware of his presence beside me… the steady rhythm of his breathing, the subtle scent of pine and earth, the warmth radiating from him in the cooling night air.
"You should drink this before it gets cold," he says finally, offering the coffee again.
I accept it without argument this time, my initial anger having faded to a reluctant pragmatism. The coffee is perfect, which only irritates me more. "How did you even get into my car?" I ask, suddenly realizing the doors were locked. "The alarm should have?—"
"Brownie magick," he says, as if that explains anything. "Like I told you before, physical barriers remember when they were trees and ore. They can be persuaded."
"That's not—" I stop myself. There's no point arguing about the physics or metaphysics of magical lock-picking with a wolf shifter. "Just don't do it again."
Another thirty minutes pass as I note three more hellhounds materializing near the loading dock. Their movements seem more purposeful now, less patrol and more... anticipation. It reminds me of predators sensing prey is near.
Fen notices too. "Something's changing," he murmurs, leaning forward slightly.
"They're converging," I agree, professional instincts kicking in. "But nothing's happening."
Two more hours creep by. We fall into a surprisingly comfortable rhythm, trading observations about the hellhounds' behavior. I find myself impressed by his attention to detail, the way he notices patterns I might have missed. Despite my initial resistance, we're working well together.
"You're good at this," I admit finally, rolling my shoulders to release the tension from sitting still so long. "Surveillance."
"I've had some practice," he says with a small smile that suggests there's a story there.
The ease between us now feels dangerous, like standing too close to a cliff edge. My training screams at me to maintain professional distance, but something deeper, more instinctual, keeps pulling me toward him.
"What makes someone 'the worst of the worst'?" I ask finally, curiosity getting the better of me. "In Hades' opinion."
I glance over at Fen, catching the slight upturn at the corners of his mouth, the way his golden eyes brighten with interest. He seems pleased by my question, as if my willingness to engage in conversation is some kind of victory. Maybe it is.
"The truly damned have broken the most fundamental laws of existence," he explains, his voice taking on a storyteller's cadence. "Those who betray sacred trusts and those who harm the innocent for pleasure or power."
"Sounds subjective," I observe, taking another sip of the excellent coffee.
"The gods usually are." His smile is wry. "But Hades more than most has a clear code. Death comes to all eventually, but damnation is earned through deliberate choice."
I digest this information, watching another hellhound materialize near the loading dock. My blood turns to slush in my veins, a reaction no amount of professional detachment can suppress. If hellhounds hunt those who've committed unforgivable acts… those who betray sacred trusts… where exactly does that leave me?
I'm supernatural, hunting my own kind for a human organization. I've captured countless beings, some who might have been innocent of any real crime beyond existing. Would Hades consider that a betrayal? Am I the kind of soul these creatures might someday come for?
My gaze drifts to the gun at my hip, to the GUIDE insignia on my jacket. The line between protector and traitor suddenly feels razor-thin.
"So whoever they're hunting in there has done something truly unforgivable," I say, my voice deliberately neutral as I push away the uncomfortable thought that someday, those glowing red eyes might fix on me instead.
"Or is about to," Fen adds, his expression darkening.
My shoulders ache, but the potential threat keeps me alert. Beside me, Fen remains a steady presence, his breathing even and controlled, his focus unwavering. It’s comforting to not be alone. Who am I kidding… he’s comforting.
"Want to play a game?" I ask suddenly, surprising myself. "Question for question. Fair exchange."
His eyebrows rise slightly, but his lips curve into a smile that makes my stomach flip in a dangerous way. "Sounds interesting. You start."
The question has been burning in my mind all day, the case file sitting in my bag like a ticking bomb. "Do you know anything about chimeras?" I ask, watching his reaction carefully. "The creatures I mentioned were in Rome."
His expression shifts subtly. His golden eyes sharpen with predatory focus, then shutter just as quickly—like watching a wolf retreat into shadow when it realizes it's been spotted. "They're ancient fae creatures," he says after a moment, his voice carefully neutral. "Why do you ask?"
"Professional curiosity," I reply. The half-truth tastes bitter on my tongue. I'm not ready to tell him I'm using GUIDE resources for a personal vendetta, that finding these chimeras matters more to me than any oath I've sworn to the organization. "They're rare, even among magical creatures. And I need to know if you know anything that might help me with a current case."
I watch him carefully, wondering if he can sense the deception in my scent, in my heartbeat. "Have you encountered them?" I press.
