A gentle, elegant piano melody drifts through the air, soft and sweet, like the first breath of dawn. Jamie feels it more than he hears it at first, a warm and delicate pull at the edge of his awareness. The rush of water follows, steady and rhythmic, like waves lapping against the shore. He realizes he's standing on a beach, but everything is cloaked in darkness, as though the world itself is holding its breath. The sky is inky black, and the vast ocean before him stretches endlessly, shimmering faintly under the dim light of the moon, though no moon is in sight.
The cool breeze carries the scent of salt and damp earth, and for a moment, Jamie feels at peace, as if he belongs here, in this strange in-between place. Then, in the distance, a small fire flickers to life. Its flames crackle softly, casting a warm, flickering glow that contrasts against the deep shadows of the beach. Standing before it is an old Native American man, his silhouette sharp against the firelight. Jamie notices the man's face—strong and familiar, with eyes that carry the weight of many lifetimes. His features mirror Jamie's, as if the man is a reflection of what he could be, given time.
The old man stands tall, his hands resting calmly at his sides, and his gaze is steady and knowing. He seems unaffected by the cold breeze or the darkness around them. His presence is almost timeless, as if he's been waiting here for Jamie forever.
"You'll never understand the world, Jamie," the man says, his voice soft but resonant, each word carrying an air of undeniable wisdom. It's not harsh or unkind, but calm, like the waves themselves. "And you'll never truly change it. But you can be at peace with it."
The words settle over Jamie like the warmth of the fire, sinking deep into his chest. There's no judgment in the man's tone—only a truth that Jamie has always known but never fully grasped. The old man's gaze holds his, unwavering, until the scene around him begins to blur. The firelight dims, the ocean's rhythm fades, and Jamie feels himself slipping from this dreamlike place.
His eyes flutter open. The piano's melody still lingers faintly in his ears, and the man's words echo in his mind.
Jamie realized he must have had a decent nap, something he hadn't experienced in a while. It wasn't too long or too short—just right. He woke up more pleasantly than expected. No nightmares, no pain, no fear. No struggle to wake up or that usual "five more minutes" feeling.
Looking around, he noticed the bar was far more elegant than before, filled with expensive wines, champagnes, and refined decor. He frowned, muttering to himself. "Well, this definitely isn't the bar I was in before. This one was to Luxurious, most people couldn't afford to go there. The only similarity was the weathering of time that was claiming this place as well.
A sharp pain shot through his shoulder, snapping him back to reality. He reached behind and touched the bullet wound. *If I weren't a werewolf, that shot would've killed you for sure.* He thought.
The soft piano melody from his dream still lingered, now coming from a hallway that led to an even more luxurious room. He put two and two together: I'm probably the castle. My uncle must've brought me here.
"If there's a will, there's a way," Jamie said aloud, then added with a smirk, "and where there's a bar, my uncle's probably nearby."
The hallway sign read "Theater," and from down the hall, Jamie could still hear the piano. With the power out, he knew someone had to be playing it live. He made his way forward, walking on a worn red carpet lined with old movie posters, most of them propaganda films. As he passed, Jamie wondered what had happened here fifty years ago. If it was anything like the village, there'd probably be a few skeletons left behind.
Sure enough, at the entrance of the theater, a busboy or ticket collector—what remained of him—sat slumped against the wall, uniform riddled with bullet holes. Jamie bent down and picked up a small yellow ticket that read Shelley Von Heimler. With a smirk, he handed the skeleton its ticket. "Just a seat for one, please," he muttered, amused by his own dark humor.
He approached the large wooden doors, noticing their polished red handles, and pushed them open. Inside, as expected, his uncle sat impressively at the piano, fingers dancing over the keys. Jamie couldn't tell if it was Mozart or Beethoven, but he wasn't really one for classical music anyway.
His second assumption—that the room would be littered with alcohol—proved just as correct. Bottles were scattered around Koda, who had a half-empty champagne bottle in hand.
"Well, if it isn't my favorite—and only—nephew," Koda said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Not much of a talker, but great at making an entrance."
Jamie took in the scene. The audience consisted entirely of skeletons, dressed in suits and gowns that looked far too expensive for anything Jamie could ever afford. He introduced himself with a dramatic wave. "This is my uncle, everyone. He's never there when you need him, and when he does show up, he's generally an a******." He grinned. " He always has an episode of drinking at the worst times imaginable."
Koda took a deep swig from the champagne bottle, straight from the neck. "And this," he said, gesturing toward Jamie, "is my nephew. If his life were a book, he'd be the edgy character everyone wishes would just shut the f*** up and enjoy himself. But no—he'd rather hate the world, isolate himself, and pretend he's above it all instead of living a little."
He took another long drink, not missing a beat. "Love me or hate me, kid, I don't dictate your life. You came looking for me."
Jamie rolled his eyes and hopped onto the stage, joining his uncle. The skeleton at the piano caught his attention—a woman dressed in a beautiful red velvet gown - though the massive hole in the back of her skull was hard to ignore.
Jamie glanced at Koda, a knowing look crossing his face. "So, this must be Shelley," he said, his tone playful but his eyes serious. "And I have a sneaking suspicion you knew her a little more intimately than her husband would've liked."
Koda didn't answer, but the silence spoke volumes.
Jamie paused, caught off guard by Koda's words. "I think you're lucky," he muttered. "That's a new one. Do tell."
Koda leaned back, his eyes distant. "You're still young, Jamie. The world, as it is now, is familiar to you. But the older you get, the more foreign it all becomes. One thing you'll learn quickly is that age comes with burdens—lots of them. The worst of those is the faces of the dead. I'm 200 years old, Jamie. I'm older than everything in this castle, save for the castle itself. One day, I'll be so old that the only things I'll recognize will be the ground beneath me and the mountains towering over it. I try to forget... but the alcohol just doesn't work like it used to."
Jamie stood there, absorbing the weight of his uncle's words. After a moment, he said, "Well, I don't know if I'll be alive for 200 years, so I try not to think about long-term planning. Honestly, half the time, I'm not even sure I'll live that long."
He walked over to Koda, flipping the piano's cover closed. His eyes briefly flashed black, a sign of his inner Darkness. "I think we've had a... tense relationship lately. I've cut myself off from most people, trying to avoid ending up like you—drinking myself to death in a bar. Meanwhile, you've slipped back into your old habits. We've both been through life-and-death situations that've rattled us. We're both on edge."
Jamie locked eyes with Koda, his voice low. "You've talked about the faces of the dead, but there's one face you've never mentioned—my dad. Why's that?"
Koda let out a malicious grin. "Well, kid, if you don't like me, you sure as hell wouldn't have liked him. All the propaganda? Yeah, most of it was true. He was a coward, an adulterer. The women he slept with? There might be a hundred more like you out there, for all I know. Makes sense he had a half-blood kid." Koda chuckled darkly. "I don't mention our tribe or family because, quite frankly, they're not worth talking about."
Jamie's fist tightened around Koda's shirt. He pulled his arm back, ready to punch, but stopped himself just inches from Koda's face. He took a deep breath, trying to steady the surge of anger coursing through him. "Yeah, that makes sense," Jamie said, his voice calmer now. "I can't hold onto the past. I don't have the luxury. I need to focus on others. So where the hell is everyone else?"
Koda smirked and shrugged. "If you must know, I found the others. Mr. Schizo, as you call him, sensed the danger. He hid the group when you and Sam didn't come back."
Jamie raised an eyebrow. "Alright, so if they're here, where are they?"
"They're in a vault," Koda replied. "And I'm about 95% sure the enemy doesn't know they're in a vault. Most of the valuables around here have been looted. The vault is here in the castle."
Jamie sighed in frustration. "Where the hell were you in all of this?"
Koda leaned back casually. "I think I woke up about two hours ago. I crashed about a mile or two from here. I tracked your scent—not exactly hard to find. I just followed the destruction and found you unconscious. The others weren't hard to find after that."
Jamie felt a bit of the tension ease. "How long was I out?"
Koda answered without hesitation, "Three hours."
Jamie asked, "Alright, where is Talo?"
Koda shrugged. "Well, he's either dead or ran away. I'm betting on the former rather than the latter."
Jamie paused, thinking. Okay, everything's making sense so far, but there's one thing he's not telling me. He looked at Koda again, his eyes sharp. "Where did you know her from?"
Koda grabbed a wine bottle, taking a long swig. "Aged to perfection," he mused. "This one's gotta be at least a hundred years old."
Jamie, growing impatient, slammed his hand against the piano. The exaggerated, discordant sound reverberated through the empty theater, echoing in the silence. Koda didn't flinch.
"Her name is Shiloh," Koda finally said. "She was a weapon, created to kill your father. When the monsters of the world were divided—after Mother lost the war—the U.S. got most of the Native American creatures, including skinwalkers. But skinwalkers, they're dangerous—but as dangerous as they hoped. Fearing that Germany would gain an upper hand, the U.S. started experimenting on them." He paused, letting his words hang in the air. "They were supposed to be a failsafe, in case the werewolves turned against the U.S. or their enemies would have better find a backup plan."
There was genuine disgust on Koda's face, a rare expression from him. Jamie, however, was more thoughtful. His mind started piecing things together.
"She looks like she's in her twenties," Jamie muttered, thinking out loud. "I know looks can be deceiving when people can live hundreds of years and still look young. But she acts her age, doesn't she? She must be around my age." He paused, his brow furrowing. "And you said she was created to kill my father. But with him gone... They created her around the time I was born."
Jamie's mind raced. "She wasn't made to kill him; she was made to kill me." The pieces clicked together. "There are too many skinwalkers for just one werewolf like my dad. But there aren't that many of us left, right? So they must've thought—"
"Half-bloods," Koda finished the thought. "If werewolves can breed with humans, other monsters probably can too. There could be thousands of you all over the world. They needed a failsafe."
Jamie's eyes widened. "Do they think I'm a half-blood?"
"Well, I can tell you there are a few others who know who you are," Koda said, his tone casual yet sharp. "I know two of them. I was assigned to watch you, Jamie. You've got some sympathetic people in your corner, hiding your identity."
A wicked smile crept across Koda's face. "Good old Douglas knows who you are."
Jamie blinked, almost dumbfounded. "The General?"
Koda chuckled. "I made a deal with him. I'd stay in the service as long as I could keep you in line." He leaned back, looking Jamie over. "I have to admit, I never expected you to be so... mature. I never thought you'd care about others. Quite frankly, I didn't think you'd ever be capable of being... a human being."
For the first time in a long while, Koda gave a genuine smile. "After 200 years, it's finally nice to be wrong about something."
A strange warmth washed over Jamie, unfamiliar and unsettling in its sincerity. He wasn't used to feeling admired, especially by someone like Koda.
Koda set the bottle down and looked Jamie in the eyes. "Not everything they said about your father was true. He was a good man, and you've got his heart." He paused, his grin turning playful. "I just wish you had my brain."
He laughed, a deep, throaty sound that echoed in the stillness of the room, lightening the air between them just a little.
Jamie awkwardly laughed. "Well, how are we going to take the bitch out?"
Koda gave it some thought. "If we're going to take her out, we'll need a better strategy than just charging in as werewolves. We do this as humans."
Jamie, frustrated, shot back, "Why the hell not? What do you mean we can't fight them as werewolves?"
Koda sighed. "Jamie, you barely survived. You've pushed your werewolf body to its limit. I can't handle hundreds of enemies at once like you. Whatever your Half-Blood did to you, it made you an Olympian compared to other monsters. You're Special Forces—I'm basic infantry when it comes to our power."
Jamie retorted, "Okay, then how are we doing this?"
"Well, you had a sniper, right?" Koda asked.
"Right," Jamie replied.
"Then we use our special forces training. We take them out one by one, however long it takes. They're strong, but not experienced or clever. I think we've already gotten most of the smart ones. We wait it out, let you rest up, and once you're ready, we'll finish them."
Jamie paused, then nodded. "Sounds just like Bangkok all over again. But yeah, you're right. I really don't want to get cut open again."
A sharp pain in his back reminded him of everything he'd endured. He winced.
Koda added, "One more thing—no more playing hero."
Jamie's expression turned neutral, then he angrily said, "The fuck you mean, no more being a hero?"
Koda took a drink, locking eyes with him. "The world governments train soldiers because they get the job done. Heroes are idiots who get everyone killed—you, of all people, should know that."
"Jamie, you tried to be the hero—how'd that work out for you?" Koda asked, his voice calm but pointed.
Jamie was quick to respond. "There are people alive right now, stashed in some vault you put them in. I'm pretty sure their families appreciate that. I know all the drinking has made you cynical, and the tiniest bit of decency is probably forced out of your brain with all the bourbon and whiskey you down. But guess what, human dignity still exists. I know it pisses you off, but it's true. There are still decent people out there, and I'm not letting them die. You might be a miserable piece of shit who'd let others die, but I'm not."
Koda remained calm. "You came within an inch of death. If I hadn't picked you up, you'd be dead. And then what? We'd be left with a tribe of Skinwalkers rampaging, doing God knows what. The few people on Earth who know about her and could stop her would be dead. You're practically at death's door, Jamie. The next time you meet her, it could very well be your last."
Koda's voice hardened. "I've lived for 200 years, and heroes forget about something called the real world. The world chews up those ideas, spits them out, and tears apart any sense of hope. I don't like being the way I am, but you need to start listening to logic and reason. They're the only things that work in this godforsaken world and preserve anything worth saving."
He leaned in. "You think some hero can fix the world just because he feels like he can? I don't like me, Jamie, but if you don't stop acting like a hero and start being the soldier you were trained to be, you're going to end up just like me. We weren't raised to be heroes—we were made to be weapons. And that's exactly what you'll need to be to take her down."
Jamie's face twisted through a mix of emotions, but practicality won out in the end. "Fine," he said. Then he added, "But if we're doing this, you're doing it sober."
Koda smirked. "I can have two more beers."
"You're not having any more," Jamie shot back. "I need your brain and experience."
A look of genuine confusion crossed Jamie's face. "Why two more beers? Why not three or four?"
Koda, slightly embarrassed, muttered, "Two more's all I need to feel like I'm really handsome."
Jamie, with mock outrage, yelled, "We both know you need at least ten for that!"
A silence hung in the air for a moment, then both men burst into laughter—long, awkward, but much needed.