Y/n’s boots scraped against concrete as they stumbled onto the loading dock, one hand pressed to the wound at their side. The silver blade was still lodged there, burning with every heartbeat. Klaus’s parting words echoed in their skull: You’ll die, little wolf. But not yet.

Streetlights flickered to life down the block, casting long shadows through the chain-link fence. Somewhere a dog barked, then went silent.

Every step was a war. The blood was warm, too warm, soaking through the torn denim jacket. The world tilted—then steadied. A door creaked open across the yard.