Chapter 25: The Wolves Behind the Glass

Boulder Creek wasn’t even on most maps.

If you weren’t born there, chances were, you’d never find it—unless you were looking for something the world didn’t want you to see. A mountain town buried beneath miles of pine, fog, and too many forgotten stories, it was the kind of place where secrets went to root. Where shadows didn’t just stretch—they settled. Permanent and still. Like tombstones with no names.

People here didn’t ask questions.

They just looked the other way.

Or disappeared.

I arrived just before dawn, my rental car coated in a thin layer of road dust and regret, the windshield smeared with the remnants of early mountain insects. The headlights sliced through the fog like they were peeling back the skin of the morning. It wasn’t raining, not quite, but the air was heavy—thick with the promise of a storm and something else. Something metallic.

The sky above was a soft, bruised gray, low-hanging and slow to wake. Clouds moved like tired ghosts across the horizon. There were no birds. No early risers jogging with headphones or leashed dogs. Just stillness.

I liked it.

It reminded me of me.

I pulled into the only gas station I’d seen for twenty miles, just outside town limits. It looked like it had once belonged to another century—one pump leaning like it was too old to stand upright, an empty air hose coiled like a forgotten serpent, and windows fogged by years of cigarette smoke and silence.

Inside, the place was a time capsule.

Half a candy aisle lined with dust-coated boxes of stale gum and ancient licorice. A single rotating hot dog that looked like it had outlived multiple pandemics. And a coffee machine that hissed steam like it was angry to still be alive. The smell of scorched beans clung to the corners like old wallpaper.

Perfect place to start asking the wrong questions.

\---

The cashier looked like he’d come with the building. About seventy-five, though his eyes suggested something even older. Deep lines carved across a sun-spotted face, white stubble on his chin, and a baseball cap pulled low over his brow. It read “Don’t talk to me,” in cracked embroidery.

A cigarette sat tucked behind one ear, defiant beneath the hand-written “NO SMOKING” sign taped crookedly on the counter behind him. His aura said he hadn’t moved in years—and didn’t want to.

I slid a pack of gum across the counter, watching his face. “Quiet town.”

He didn’t look up. Just scanned the barcode and muttered, “Best kind.”

“I heard there’s a lab up in the hills,” I said casually, leaning on the counter. “Old military base or something. Some kind of abandoned project.”

That got a twitch.

He looked at me then. One eye narrowed beneath the shadow of his cap.

“You from the government?”

I smiled sweetly, the way only a trained killer with blood on her boots could. “Worse. I’m a Luna.”

His mouth flattened. Not surprise. Not fear. Just recognition.

He blinked. Then nodded once, slowly, like he was updating some mental obituary list. “Then you should be careful, ma’am. Places like that don’t like curious wolves.”

I held his gaze for another second, then picked up the gum, left a five-dollar bill, and walked out.

Didn’t need the change.

Didn’t need the gum either.

But some ghosts like to be acknowledged.

\---

The forest surrounding Boulder Creek wasn’t just dense—it was ancient. The kind of place that didn’t just whisper at night, but listened. The trees loomed high above the road like sentinels carved from green and shadow. Moss blanketed the trunks like fur, and the air smelled of pine needles, rotting leaves, and something beneath it all—earthy and faintly electric.

The kind of scent that said something unnatural had bled into the soil.

I followed the gravel path on foot, boots crunching over loose stones and fallen needles, the fog thick enough that I could only see a dozen steps ahead. My hands stayed loose at my sides, one always hovering near the handle of the blade sheathed against my thigh.

There were no signs.

No fences.

No warnings.

Just a presence.

A weight in the air that settled on my shoulders like I’d crossed an invisible threshold. It was the same feeling I got when I stepped into a room seconds after someone died. A hush. A waiting.

Like something was watching.

I followed the curve of the trail until the trees parted slightly, revealing a clearing half-swallowed by nature.

There it was.

A gate.

Steel. Cold. Brutal. Half-buried in moss and time, overgrown vines curling around its hinges like they were trying to choke it back into the earth. A biometric scanner blinked dully on the side, waiting for a hand that wouldn’t come.

Old wolves didn’t carry keycards.

But I carried something better.

Ethan’s ridiculous tech brain.

\---

Back at the gas station, I’d noticed the Wi-Fi password scrawled on a sticky note near the register—probably meant for the soda machine or the cashier’s grandkid. Either way, it was enough.

I had just enough signal to FaceTime Ethan while pretending to browse a row of questionable Slim Jims.

He answered groggy, shirtless, and mid-yawn.

“Please tell me you’re not calling from inside a murder cave,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes.

“I’m calling from outside one,” I said cheerfully, brushing pine needles from my jacket. “Big metal gate. Glowing scanner. Vibes of imminent doom. Ring any bells?”

He perked up immediately. “You found it?!”

Elena’s face popped into view beside him, her hair a tangled halo of dark curls. She wore a hoodie that said “Death Before Decaf”, sipping from a mug that looked more like a cauldron.

She raised a brow. “Let me guess. Locked out?”

“Shockingly, yes.”

Ethan started tapping at a keyboard off-screen, yawning through it. “Send me a photo of the gate’s keypad.”

I snapped one and sent it.

Two minutes later, my phone buzzed again.

“Try 661904,” he said, voice already smug.

The scanner blinked green.

The gate clicked.

Elena grinned like a cat. “You owe us donuts.”

“Noted,” I said, already slipping through. “If I don’t die horribly in the next twelve hours, I’ll get you two a whole box.”

“Make it maple bars,” Ethan muttered.

The call ended.

The gate slammed shut behind me.

\---

The facility was buried beneath the forest like a secret. Its halls stretched deep and narrow, carved from steel and silence. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead in a steady, teeth-grinding rhythm. The walls were too clean. Too new.

And yet, everything smelled like dust.

Not the kind that collects from time—but the kind left behind when something is burned away.

I moved carefully, steps soft, blade ready. The deeper I went, the colder it got. Not just physically—but spiritually. Like the place had been carved from something dead. From the bones of forgotten things.

No guards.

No movement.

Just the faint hum of machines hidden behind the walls, as if the building itself were still breathing.

Each door I passed was labeled in blocky white code:

X-13. X-14. XR-5.

Experiments, most likely.

Or graves.

I didn’t stop.

Not until I saw it.

X-9.

The door was slightly ajar.

Not broken.

Not forced.

Just waiting.

I pushed it open with one hand.

Inside was a room unlike the others.

White. Bright. Lined with glass.

A containment chamber sat in the center, square and sharp like a surgical theater. Fluorescent lights spilled down onto polished floors. No furniture. No bed. Just a bench.

And her.

\---

She looked no older than sixteen, though her eyes told a different story. She sat perfectly still on the bench inside the glass, arms folded in her lap, legs crossed, spine straight.

Pale skin.

Hair like coal dust.

Eyes like wildfire.

She didn’t blink.

Didn’t twitch.

Didn’t breathe.

Not until I took a step closer.

Then, like a puppet reanimated by an unseen string, she turned her head—quick, sharp—and met my gaze with a smile that didn’t touch her eyes.

It was like looking into a cracked mirror.

\---

The screen beside the glass flickered to life.

I jumped, instinctively reaching for my blade.

But it was just a video feed.

And a voice I hated more than fire.

Gregory.

His voice was calm. Measured. Like always.

“This subject responded aggressively to traditional training,” he said. “Resistance to sedation. Increased strength noted on full moon cycles. Subject is genetically unstable—but highly promising.”

The screen changed.

A photograph.

A child.

Me.

Ten years old.

Eyes wide with terror. Knees pulled to my chest. A bandage across one cheek. Blood at the edge of my lip.

Label: Subject 1A.

Gregory’s voice continued: “Her rage mimics early subject patterns—particularly Subject 1A.”

I backed away from the screen, heart thudding.

The girl inside the glass stood slowly.

Her movement was almost weightless, like gravity barely touched her.

She tilted her head.

Then she mouthed something:

“You’re me.”

I didn’t have time to respond.

The alarms began.

A shrieking, pulsing wail.

The lights overhead flashed red.

The door behind me slammed shut.

Locks hissed into place.

Sealed.

I spun around—

But I already knew what this was.

A trap.

Or a test.

And I had just stepped into the middle of it.