The red numerals glared: 04:58.
Four minutes and fifty-eight seconds until… oblivion?
Max cursed under his breath.
The room throbbed with an insistent, rhythmic pulse as the self-destruct sequence wailed.
A high-pitched whine cut through the air, each second feeling like a shard of ice piercing his skull.
He snatched the file, its cold, metallic surface shocking his skin.
Pages filled with Thorne's chilling legacy blurred before his eyes.
Names, dates, obscure rituals… all pointing towards a cataclysmic event.
But dammit, half the document was encrypted, a labyrinth of digital gibberish.
His enhanced hearing picked up the subtle hiss of gas seeping from vents in the ceiling – another delightful addition to the countdown.
Sweat slicked his palms.
Should he stay?
Risk everything trying to crack the code?
Or bolt, pray he could decipher it later, and maybe, just maybe, get a warning to Aria?
*Tick. Tick. Tick.*
The flashing red emergency lights painted the room in strobing crimson, each pulse a hammer blow against his resolve.
His wolf senses screamed at him to *run*.
Thorne clearly wasn't messing around.
But abandoning this… the evidence, Thorne's confession… it felt like handing him the victory on a silver platter.
*Tick. Tick.*
His fingers hovered over the keypad.
He could try a brute-force attack, but with this level of encryption, he'd be lucky to crack a single character before…
*Tick.*
Three minutes.
He pictured Aria's face, her unwavering gaze, the sheer power that radiated from her.
She was out there, fighting, preparing.
He couldn't let her down.
He couldn't let the world burn because he was too stubborn to…
A surge of adrenaline coursed through him, sharpening his senses.
He tore a page free from the file – a seemingly insignificant diagram with a strange symbol etched in the corner.
He crumpled it into his pocket.
It was all he could carry.
He glanced one last time at the encrypted data, a knot of frustration tightening in his gut.
It would have to do.
Survival first, answers later.
"Time to bounce," he muttered to himself.
He turned to the door, his hand reaching for the handle when a voice echoed through the room.
"Going somewhere, *Max*?"
The voice, laced with a chilling familiarity, sent a jolt of icy dread down Max's spine.
He froze, his hand hovering inches from the door handle.
*Thorne.
*
He didn't bother turning.
Every instinct screamed at him to move, to run, but he was momentarily paralyzed, trapped in the spotlight of Thorne's unseen gaze.
The self-destruct alarm wailed, the rhythmic pulse now a deafening roar in his ears.
*Think, Max, think!*
He slammed his shoulder against the door, the reinforced steel groaning under the impact.
He threw himself into the corridor, the sterile white walls blurring into streaks of grey.
Two figures materialized at the far end, weapons raised.
Thorne's personal guard, no doubt.
Adrenaline flooded his system, sharpening his senses.
He could hear their heavy breathing, the click of their weapons as they took aim.
He caught a whiff of gun oil and fear – their fear.
He grinned, a feral flash of teeth in the strobing light.
He was faster, stronger.
He had the advantage.
He dropped low, weaving between the laser grids that crisscrossed the hallway, his enhanced agility allowing him to navigate the deadly maze with ease.
The guards opened fire, bullets ricocheting off the walls, close enough to singe his hair.
He lunged forward, a blur of motion, closing the distance in seconds.
The first guard barely had time to react before Max slammed into him, sending him crashing against the opposite wall.
The second guard fumbled with his weapon, his eyes wide with panic.
Max disarmed him with a swift, brutal move, twisting the man's wrist until he cried out in pain.
He didn't have time for mercy.
He kicked the guard into the first, a tangled heap of limbs and groans.
He sprinted on, the self-destruct alarm a relentless drumbeat pushing him forward.
He rounded a corner, nearly colliding with another pair of guards.
He roared, a primal sound that echoed through the corridor, and charged.
He moved with a speed and ferocity that belied his earlier hesitation.
He was a whirlwind of fists and fury, each blow landing with bone-jarring force.
They crumpled before him, a testament to his werewolf strength.
He didn't look back.
He couldn't.
He burst through a heavy steel door into a vast, echoing warehouse.
Crates towered above him, casting long, ominous shadows.
The air hung thick with the smell of oil and dust.
He could hear the faint sound of sirens in the distance.
He scanned the maze of containers, searching for an exit.
He spotted a loading dock, a sliver of moonlight peeking through the gap in the shutter.
Freedom.
He sprinted towards it, dodging forklifts and stacks of pallets.
He could hear the pursuing footsteps behind him, the angry shouts of the guards.
They were gaining on him.
He reached the loading dock and slammed his hand on the release button.
The shutter groaned and shuddered as it slowly began to rise.
He squeezed through the opening, the cool night air washing over him.
He took a deep breath, the first clean air he'd tasted in hours.
He turned to face his pursuers, a defiant glint in his eyes.
He was ready for them.
He would not be taken alive.
He reached into his pocket, his fingers closing around the crumpled diagram he'd ripped from the file.
He pulled it out, smoothing it against his thigh.
His heart lurched.
The diagram was incomplete.
A piece was missing.
The voice, smooth as silk, yet laced with venom, froze Max in his tracks.
He spun around, his hand instinctively reaching for the non-existent weapon at his hip.
Thorne.
Standing in the doorway, a mocking smile playing on his lips, was the man who had become Max's nightmare.
Two hulking figures flanked him, their faces obscured by shadows, but the glint of metal in their hands spoke volumes.
"I must say, I'm impressed," Thorne continued, clapping slowly.
"You almost made it. Almost." He gestured towards the flashing red timer.
"One minute, thirty seconds. Tick-tock."
Max's mind raced.
He was trapped.
Outnumbered.
Outgunned.
And the room was about to become his tomb.
He needed a distraction.
Something, anything, to buy him a few precious seconds.
His eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape route, a weapon, a miracle.
He spotted a fire extinguisher near the door.
Not ideal, but better than nothing.
"You seem to forget something, Thorne," Max said, forcing his voice to remain steady despite the pounding in his chest.
"I'm not exactly… normal."
He lunged for the fire extinguisher, ripping it from the wall.
Thorne's smile faltered.
A flicker of uncertainty crossed his face.
It was the opening Max needed.
He squeezed the trigger, unleashing a cloud of white chemical foam that engulfed Thorne and his goons in a blinding blizzard.
The room filled with coughs and curses.
Visibility dropped to near zero.
Max didn't hesitate.
He slammed the fire extinguisher into the nearest goon, hearing a satisfying crunch of bone, and then bolted.
He crashed through the door, ignoring the searing pain in his shoulder, and sprinted down the corridor.
The alarms blared, a cacophony of noise that echoed through the building.
He could hear Thorne's enraged roars fading behind him as he navigated the labyrinthine hallways, his wolf senses guiding him through the smoke and chaos.
He burst through a fire exit, the cold night air stinging his lungs, and found himself in a deserted alleyway.
He didn't stop running.
He knew Thorne wouldn't give up easily.
This was more than just a game to him.
It was about power.
Control.
And Max had something he desperately wanted – the knowledge of his connection to the world's richest man, and the key to preventing the impending catastrophe.
As he ran, he pulled the crumpled page from his pocket.
Under the flickering gaslight of a nearby streetlamp, the strange symbol pulsed with a faint, ethereal glow.
It was a rune, unlike anything he'd seen before.
It felt… familiar.
Almost as if it was a part of him.
He shoved the page back into his pocket.
He needed to get to Aria.
Warn her.
And then, together, they would face whatever Thorne and his impending apocalypse threw at them.
The ground beneath his feet began to tremble.
A low rumble echoed through the city, growing louder with each passing second.
The prophecy.
It was starting.
Max looked up at the sky.
The moon, full and blood-red, hung ominously in the night.
This was just the beginning.
The air in Thorne's hidden archive hung thick with the scent of aged parchment and dust.
Max, his senses still heightened from the adrenaline of his discovery, felt a prickle of unease crawl up his spine.
He wasn't alone.
He could hear the faint *tap, tap, tap* of approaching footsteps, too measured and deliberate to be anything but a deliberate hunt.
He quickly scanned the last document – a heavily embossed birth certificate.
There it was, plain as day, yet utterly unbelievable: Maximilian Thorne, son of...
*Elias Thorne*.
The world's richest man.
His father.
A wave of dizziness nearly knocked him off his feet.
He shoved the certificate into his jacket pocket, the crinkling of the paper a deafening sound in the sudden silence.
The footsteps had stopped.
"Looking for something, *Max*?" a smooth, chillingly familiar voice purred from the doorway.
Max whirled around.
It wasn't Thorne himself, but a woman, immaculately dressed, with a severe bun and eyes that glittered with cold amusement.
Ella Green, Thorne's ever-present, ever-condescending secretary.
Beside her stood two hulking figures, their faces obscured by shadows, but their stance radiating menace.
They were definitely *not* part of Thorne's usual security detail.
"Just admiring the…decor," Max stammered, forcing a grin he didn't feel.
"Quite a collection of…old things."
Ella Green raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
"Mr. Thorne has a passion for history. A passion you seem to share, given your…unauthorized presence." Her gaze flicked to his bulging pocket.
"Perhaps you'd care to share what treasures you've unearthed?"
Max knew he was cornered.
He could try to fight, but against these odds, even his werewolf strength felt insufficient.
He needed a distraction.
His eyes darted around the room, landing on a precariously stacked pile of ancient scrolls.
An idea, reckless and desperate, sparked in his mind.
"Actually," Max said, his voice gaining a sudden, theatrical confidence, "I was just about to ask about *this*." He gestured towards the scrolls, feigning intense interest.
"Remarkable! Is this…original Sumerian? Professor Smith, the historian, would be absolutely *ecstatic* to see this!"
He edged closer to the scrolls, his hand subtly reaching out.
Ella Green, clearly not expecting this turn, took a hesitant step forward.
"Professor Smith? He's…unavailable."
"Unavailable?" Max feigned shock.
"But I just spoke to him! He's expecting me, you see. About a rather…*sensitive* matter concerning Mr. Thorne's…genealogy." He let the word hang in the air, watching Ella's reaction closely.
Her composure flickered.
The mention of genealogy, coupled with Professor Smith's name (a known thorn in Thorne's side, thanks to his relentless pursuit of Thorne's hidden past), clearly rattled her.
This was his chance.
With a sudden, swift movement, Max knocked the top scroll off the pile.
It tumbled down, setting off a chain reaction.
Scrolls cascaded to the floor, unrolling in a flurry of parchment and dust.
The two guards instinctively moved to catch them, their attention momentarily diverted.
Max seized the opportunity.
He lunged forward, shoving past Ella Green, who shrieked in surprise.
He sprinted towards a narrow, previously unnoticed door at the back of the archive.
"Get him!" Ella Green's voice was a furious hiss.
The chase was on.
Max burst out of the archive and into a labyrinthine network of corridors.
He could hear the heavy thud of the guards' boots behind him.
He risked a glance over his shoulder – they were gaining.
He burst through a set of double doors and found himself in a large, deserted office.
A window offered a glimpse of the city skyline, the setting sun painting the clouds in fiery hues.
Freedom was so close, yet so far.
Suddenly, a glint of metal caught his eye.
A small, silver letter opener lay on a desk.
An idea, born of desperation and a touch of wolfish cunning, flashed through his mind.
He grabbed the letter opener and, with a surge of strength, jammed it into the door's locking mechanism.
It wouldn't hold them for long, but it would buy him precious seconds.
He raced to the window.
It was locked, but the latch looked old and flimsy.
He slammed his shoulder against it, once, twice.
The latch gave way with a satisfying crack.
He threw the window open, the cool night air rushing in.
He looked down.
It was a long drop, at least three stories.
Below, he saw a conveniently placed dumpster, overflowing with refuse.
Not ideal, but better than the alternative.
He took a deep breath, channeled his inner wolf, and leaped.
He landed in the dumpster with a sickening thud, the stench of rotting garbage filling his nostrils.
He scrambled out, bruised but unbroken, and sprinted into the maze of narrow alleyways that snaked behind Thorne's estate.
As he ran, he heard the distant wail of sirens.
Had Thorne called the police?
Or was it something else?
Something…bigger?
He pulled out the birth certificate, the crumpled paper a tangible link to his unbelievable past.
He had the proof.
Now he had to get to Aria.
He glanced up at the darkening sky.
The first few stars were beginning to appear, but they were obscured by a strange, swirling haze that seemed to be gathering on the horizon.
It pulsed with an unnatural, almost sickly light.
A cold dread settled in his stomach.
It wasn't just sirens he was hearing.
It was the wind, picking up, carrying with it a whisper of something ancient, something terrifying.
The prophecy was coming to pass, faster than he'd thought.
And the world was utterly unprepared.