The address Professor Smith provided led Max to the edge of the city, where the buildings thinned out and were replaced by overgrown gardens and houses swallowed by ivy.
It wasn't just the distance from the city center that made the location peculiar; it was the oppressive silence.
The usual urban hum was absent, replaced by an unsettling stillness.
Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
As Max approached the house, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched.
The garden wasn't simply overgrown; it was meticulously chaotic, like a stage set for a forgotten play.
Twisted branches reached out like skeletal fingers, and the shadows danced in unnatural patterns.
It was as if someone had deliberately crafted an atmosphere of unease.
Doubt gnawed at Max.
Was this just the eccentricity of an academic, or was something more sinister at play?
The air itself seemed heavy, charged with an energy that prickled his skin.
He trusted his instincts, and they were screaming at him to turn back.
But the link to Sterling was too important to ignore.
With a deep breath, Max approached the front door, a warped slab of wood that looked as though it hadn't been opened in years.
He raised his hand and knocked, the sound echoing through the unnatural silence.
A long moment passed before the door creaked open, revealing Professor Smith.
The man's face was a mask of suspicion, his eyes narrowed and guarded.
He clutched a worn book to his chest as if it were a shield.
"What do you want?" Smith's voice was raspy, barely above a whisper.
Max forced a smile.
"Professor Smith? My name is Max. I was hoping to ask you a few questions about Sterling's collection."
The professor's eyes hardened.
"I don't know what you're talking about. I have nothing to say to you." He began to close the door.
"Wait!" Max exclaimed, his hand instinctively reaching out to stop the door from closing.
"I know about the artifact, the one Sterling acquired. It's important."
Smith's grip tightened on the book, his knuckles white.
"Get off my property. I warn you, I'm not afraid to call the police."
Max felt a wave of frustration wash over him.
He'd hoped to reason with the professor, but it was clear that Smith was determined to stonewall him.
The cold air seemed to seep into his bones, chilling him from the inside out.
Just as Max was about to concede defeat, Smith's gaze flickered past him, his eyes widening in alarm.
"Who's there?" the professor hissed, his voice laced with fear.
Professor Smith's eyes darted past Max, widening with alarm, "Who's there?" he hissed, his voice laced with fear.
Before Max could turn, a voice sliced through the tense silence.
"Professor Smith, darling! I was hoping to catch you before you retreated into your... scholarly lair."
Lucy Thompson, a whirlwind of bright colors and disarming smiles, stepped into view.
Max recognized her instantly from the local news station.
What was a reporter doing here, poking around in this bizarre situation?
Smith visibly recoiled, his face contorting with a mixture of annoyance and apprehension.
"Ms. Thompson. I wasn't expecting you."
Lucy's smile widened, though Max thought he detected a flicker of something sharp beneath the surface.
"Oh, but I'm always expecting *you*, Professor. You're such a fascinating character. And who's your friend?" She turned her attention to Max, her eyes bright with curiosity.
"He's... a student," Smith stammered, clearly flustered.
"He was just leaving."
"A student, how lovely," Lucy purred, her gaze fixed on Max.
"What are you studying? Perhaps I can help with your research."
Max hesitated.
Lucy's arrival was both a blessing and a curse.
On one hand, she'd distracted Smith, giving him a chance to gather his thoughts.
On the other, she was a reporter.
Getting involved with the media was the last thing he needed.
"I'm just doing some personal research," Max said cautiously.
"Nothing that would interest you."
Lucy tilted her head, her eyes gleaming.
"Oh, I'm interested in everything, darling. Especially secrets." She took a step closer to Max, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Tell me, what secrets are you digging up at dear Professor Smith's?"
The air crackled with unspoken questions.
Max could feel Smith's gaze boring into him, filled with a silent warning.
He glanced from the professor to the reporter, his mind racing.
Should he trust Lucy?
Could she be an ally, or was she just another obstacle in his path?
His hesitation was palpable.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the rustling of leaves in the overgrown garden.
Max's internal struggle was written on his face, a battle between suspicion and a desperate need for information.
Suddenly, a new voice broke the tension.
"Looking for secrets, are we? I might have a few of my own to share."
***
Max whirled around, his senses on high alert.
The overgrown garden offered a thousand places for someone to hide, but his enhanced hearing picked up nothing but the rustling of leaves and the distant caw of a crow.
"I don't see anyone," Max said, turning back to Smith.
But the professor was no longer looking at him.
His gaze was fixed on something – or someone – behind Max, his eyes wide with terror.
Before Max could react, a voice cut through the silence.
"Looking for something, Professor?"
The voice was smooth, almost velvety, but there was an undeniable edge of menace to it.
Max spun around again, and this time he saw him.
Standing at the edge of the garden, half-hidden in the shadows, was a man dressed in a tailored black suit.
His features were sharp and angular, his eyes like chips of obsidian.
He exuded an aura of power, a silent threat that made Max's hackles rise.
This was no ordinary man.
"Mr. Thorne," Professor Smith stammered, his face paling.
"I... I wasn't expecting you."
Thorne smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"I do hate to make unannounced visits, Professor. But I'm sure you understand. Certain matters require... oversight."
Thorne's gaze shifted to Max, his eyes narrowing.
"And who might this be? A friend of yours, Professor?"
Smith swallowed hard.
"I... he's just a student. Asking about... about local history."
Thorne's smile widened, revealing a flash of teeth.
"Is that so? How very… *unlikely*." He took a step forward, emerging fully into the dim light.
Max could now see the subtle details of his suit – the expensive fabric, the perfect fit.
This was a man who valued control, who was accustomed to getting his way.
"I think," Thorne continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "that you and I should have a little chat." He gestured towards Max with a gloved hand.
"Alone."
Max stood his ground, his heart pounding in his chest.
He was outmatched, he knew that.
Thorne radiated a palpable aura of power, a dark energy that resonated with his own werewolf nature.
But Max wasn't about to back down.
He had come too far.
"I don't think so," Max said, his voice surprisingly steady.
"I have some questions for the professor, and I'm not leaving until I get some answers."
Thorne chuckled, a dry, humorless sound.
"You have spirit, I'll give you that. But you're playing a dangerous game, young man. One you're not equipped to win."
Suddenly, a figure darted from the shadows.
Lucy Thompson, the nosy reporter from the previous day, shoved a camera in Thorne's face and started snapping pictures wildly.
"Gotcha!" Lucy crowed, stepping back to a safe distance.
"Smile for the camera, Mr…?"
Thorne's face darkened with fury, and with a speed that defied Max's eyes, he lashed out, grabbing the camera from Lucy's hands.
The camera smashed to the ground.
"You little…" Thorne roared, stepping toward Lucy, but Max jumped in the way.
"Hey, leave her alone!" Max said, shoving Thorne back.
Thorne stumbled backward, his eyes gleaming with rage.
"You have no idea who you're dealing with," he snarled.
He raised his hand to signal something, and two hulking figures emerged from the shadows, flanking him.
They were dressed in similar black suits, and their faces were grim.
"Take care of him," Thorne ordered, gesturing toward Max.
Then, turning to Professor Smith, he said, "We'll continue our conversation later, Professor. And I suggest you choose your next words very carefully."
With that, Thorne and his bodyguards vanished back into the shadows, leaving Max facing down two very large, very angry men.
Lucy whimpered behind him.
"Well," Max muttered, cracking his knuckles.
"This just got a whole lot more complicated."
The evidence, however tenuous, suggested a connection to Sterling.
Yet, every avenue of inquiry led to a brick wall.
The mystery of his link to the world's richest man deepened, leaving Max with an uneasy feeling, like the calm before a storm.
The air crackled with an unseen energy, a hint of something lurking beneath the surface of the mundane.
Something big was coming, and Max, the dumpster-diving werewolf, was right in the middle of it.
He needed more.
More than whispers and coincidences.
He needed concrete proof.
Armed with a crumpled photograph (a faded image of a Sterling family crest, pilfered from an antique shop), Max decided to cast a wider net.
His first stop: the city archives.
The musty air of the archives hung heavy as Max approached the front desk.
"Professor Smith?" he asked, flashing a disarming grin.
"I believe you're the man who knows everything about old family lineages?"
Professor Smith, a frail man with spectacles perched precariously on his nose, peered at Max over his glasses.
"Lineages, heraldry, the rise and fall of empires… What is it you seek, young man? And please, try not to breathe too heavily; you're disturbing the dust."
Max presented the photo.
"This crest. It's supposed to be the Sterling family crest. Can you tell me anything about it? Any unusual branches or… forgotten relatives?"
Professor Smith examined the photo with a magnifying glass.
"Sterling… yes, quite prominent. Impeccable bloodline, though rather… uneventful. A family of merchants and financiers, not warriors or kings. This crest... It's quite old, predating the current Sterling fortune by centuries. Interesting." He paused, tapping a bony finger on the glass.
"There is a legend, a whisper really, of a… *shadow* branch of the family. Rumored to have dabbled in… less reputable pursuits. But records are scarce. Purged, most likely."
"Purged?" Max pressed.
"By whom?"
"Ah, that's the mystery, isn't it?" Smith chuckled, a dry, rattling sound.
"Perhaps the current Sterlings wanted to keep certain skeletons locked away."
That night, Max's search led him to a dingy bar in the less-than-reputable part of town.
He had heard whispers of a private investigator, David Hunter, who might know a thing or two about digging up dirt on the rich and powerful.
Hunter was exactly as Max had pictured him: rumpled suit, perpetually bloodshot eyes, and an air of desperation clinging to him like cheap cologne.
"Sterling, huh?" Hunter slurred, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.
"That's big league. What's it worth to ya?"
Max slid a wad of cash across the sticky table.
"Information. Anything you've got on Sterling. Family secrets, shady deals, anything."
Hunter snatched the money and counted it quickly.
"Sterling's got walls around his secrets, kid. But I've heard things. Rumors of… rituals. Strange gatherings at his estate. People disappearing."
"Rituals?" Max raised an eyebrow.
"What kind of rituals?"
Hunter shrugged.
"The kind that cost a lot of money. The kind that keep certain people in power."
Their conversation was interrupted by a sharp voice.
"Looking for trouble, gentlemen?"
A woman stood behind them, her features obscured by the dim light.
Even in the shadows, Max could feel the intensity radiating from her.
It was Aria.
Aria fixed Max with an icy stare.
"Mr. Hunter, I suggest you refrain from discussing matters that don't concern you. As for you," she turned to Max, her voice softening slightly, "you seem to be on a path fraught with danger. Perhaps it's time to reconsider your… quest."
Before Max could respond, Aria was gone, melting back into the shadows.
Hunter, visibly shaken, drained his glass and mumbled something about needing another drink.
Confused and intrigued, Max left the bar.
He'd found more leads, but also encountered more questions.
Who was Aria, and why did she seem so invested in his investigation?
And what were these "rituals" Hunter had mentioned?
As Max walked home, the moon peeked out from behind the clouds, bathing the city in an ethereal glow.
He felt the familiar surge of power coursing through his veins, the wolf within him stirring.
The world was changing, and he was running out of time.
He had a feeling that his next encounter would be even stranger than the last.