The sun had barely risen when Rafet and Amca Emre set out from their makeshift den. The old warehouse creaked in the morning breeze, a constant reminder of their precarious situation. It had been weeks since Rafet's last fight, and the funds were starting to run dry. Their menial jobs were barely enough to keep the pack fed, let alone find new housing.

The streets of London were shrouded in a thick, cloying fog as they made their way through the waking city. Gas lamps still flickered, their weak light barely penetrating the gloom. The clip-clop of horse hooves on cobblestones echoed in the distance, mingling with the mournful cry of a far-off factory whistle.

"Are you certain about this meeting, Amca?" Rafet asked, keeping his voice hushed to avoid attracting unwanted attention. His breath formed small clouds in the chilly morning air.

Amca Emre nodded, his weathered face set in determination. "We must try, Rafet. Our people cannot continue like this indefinitely."

They walked through narrow alleys and forgotten backstreets, the smell of coal smoke and sewage assaulting their sensitive noses. Rafet's senses were on high alert, wary of any sign of the London pack. The encounter from earlier still weighed heavily on his mind.

As they neared their destination, a nondescript pub on the outskirts of Whitechapel, Rafet caught a familiar scent on the wind. His ears twitched involuntarily. 

"They're here," he growled softly, eyeing the weathered wooden sign swinging gently above the pub's entrance.

Amca Emre placed a calming hand on Rafet's arm. "Remember why we're doing this, my son. For the pack."

Rafet took a deep breath, centering himself. He knew Amca Emre was right, yet he still felt an immense amount of doubt. The pub loomed before them, its windows grimy and curtained, hiding whatever awaited within.

"I don't like this, Amca," Rafet muttered, his hand on the door handle. "We shouldn’t be talking to these wolves. Something is wrong with them."

“My boy, I understand your hesitation. Our ways and theirs are as different as the desert and the sea,” Amca said. “But remember, long ago, they used to be one and the same.” 

He glanced at the pub's entrance, then back to Rafet. “They’ve been shaped by the stone and steel of this place, just as we’ve been molded by the steppes and winds of our homeland. Their... wrongness, as you put it, it's merely the adaptation to a different world."

Rafet contemplated his words, not yet speaking. 

“Did our ancestors not treat with the jinn?” Amca Emre squeezed Rafet's shoulder reassuringly. "Surely we can manage a conversation with these city-dwellers, however uncouth they may seem. Who knows? Perhaps we might even teach these London wolves a thing or two about our traditions."

With a wry smile, he added, "And if diplomacy fails, well... that's why I brought along our fiercest warrior, isn't it?"

Rafet nodded, steeling himself. "For the pack," he echoed, and pushed open the door.

The hinges creaked ominously as they stepped into the smoky interior. The few patrons present in the establishment were hunched over their early morning drinks, mostly gin and ale. The floorboards groaned under the pair’s feet, and the place smelled strongly of stale tobacco.  

In the corner booth sat three members of the London pack, including their scarred leader. Their eyes tracked Rafet and Amca Emre as they approached, a mix of hostility and curiosity in their gazes.

"Well, well," the leader drawled. "If it isn't the Ghost and the old man. Come to beg for scraps?"

His two companions were no less intimidating. One, a burly man with a thick beard, cracked his knuckles menacingly. The other, on the leaner end, fidgeted with a pocket watch, his eyes never leaving Rafet.

Rafet opened his mouth, but Amca Emre spoke before he could respond. "We've come to discuss terms, as agreed."

The leader's eyes narrowed. "Terms? The only terms are these: you lot clear out of our territory, or we start thinning your numbers. Simple enough, isn't it?"

Rafet felt a growl building in his throat, the wolf within him straining for release. The bouts in the Fifth Circle had helped, tempering some of the Pale Moon’s rage, but weeks of suppressing it, and the threats to the pack made it harder and harder to keep it contained. Amca Emre's steady presence beside him was the only thing keeping him in check.

"Surely we can come to a more... mutually beneficial arrangement," Amca Emre said, his voice calm despite the tension in the air. "Our pack has skills that could be of use to you."

The leader leaned back, a look of mock consideration on his face. "Skills, you say? Like what? Herding goats? This is London, old man. We don't need your desert tricks here."

Rafet took a step forward, his eyes flashing threateningly. "Watch your tongue, dog," he snarled.

The other pack members immediately shifted in their seats, but their leader held up a hand. He studied Rafet for a long moment, then smiled. It was not a pleasant expression.

"You know what? I've had a thought," he said, his tone deceptively light. "Your boy here, the Ghost—he's quite the fighter, isn't he? Been making quite a name for himself in the pits."

Amca Emre nodded cautiously. "Rafet is a skilled warrior, yes."

"Well then, here's my offer," the leader continued. "He keeps fighting. Brings in the coin. And we'll take half of everything he earns. Consider it the price of civilizing you lot."

Rafet scoffed in disbelief. "Half? You can't be serious."

The leader's smile spread, showing too many teeth. "Oh, I'm dead serious, pup. Half of everything, or we start hunting your little pack for sport. Your choice."

Rafet felt his control slipping, the wolf clawing at the surface. He was dimly aware of his nails lengthening, his teeth sharpening. 

Amca Emre's hand on his shoulder stopped him cold. "We accept your terms," the elder said. 

Rafet whirled to face him, shock and betrayal written across his features. "Amca, you can't—"

"Silence, Rafet," Amca Emre said, his tone brooking no argument. To the London pack leader, he continued, "We will comply with your demands. In return, you will leave our people in peace."

The leader nodded, triumph gleaming in his eyes. "Smart choice, old man. Now piss off. We'll be in touch about collection."

As they turned to leave, Rafet's entire body trembled with suppressed rage. It wasn't until they were outside, away from prying eyes and ears, that he rounded on Amca Emre.

"How could you agree to that?" he demanded. "They're bleeding us dry!"

Amca Emre's eyes were sad but resolute. "We had no choice, Rafet. They are too powerful, too entrenched in this city. For now, we must bend like the reed in the wind."

Rafet shook his head, frustration evident in every line of his body. "This isn't right, Amca. We left our home to escape tyranny, not to find it again here."

"I know, my son," Amca Emre said softly. "But there will be a time and a place for us to stand tall once more. For now, we must endure."

They walked in tense silence for several blocks, each lost in their own thoughts. 

As they neared the warehouse, Amca Emre spoke again, his voice heavy with unconfessed truths. "Rafet, there's something I need to tell you. Something about my past."

Rafet stopped, turning to face the elder. "What is it, Amca?"

Amca Emre's eyes were distant, clouded with memories. "I wasn't always the man you know. In my youth, I was... different. Showing restraint, as I counsel you to do now, is not the same as weakness. I learned that lesson the hard way."

Rafet's brow furrowed. "What do you mean? What did you do?"

"I was once like them," Amca Emre said, gesturing vaguely in the direction they'd come from. "Ruthless. Violent. I believed strength was all that mattered." He paused, his voice dropping to barely a whisper. "There was blood on my hands, Rafet. So much blood."

Before Rafet could respond, he suddenly tensed, his nostrils flaring. "Amca," he whispered, "do you smell that?"

Amca Emre paused, his weathered face creasing in concentration. After a moment, he nodded gravely. "Another wolf. Not one of ours."

They exchanged a wary glance before cautiously advancing. Soon, they noticed a figure standing outside of the warehouse. A woman leaned against the door, her arms crossed. Her hair, a rich mahogany hue, fell in loose waves around her face, complementing her angular features. Her eyes, a warm amber reminiscent of honey in sunlight, fixed on Rafet with a cunning intensity. 

She wore a fitted, dark leather coat that hung to mid-thigh, cinched at the waist with a wide belt. Beneath it, a high-necked maroon blouse peeked out. Her trousers were tucked into sturdy, well-worn boots.

"Well, well," the woman said, her voice carrying a hint of amusement. "The famous Ghost of Anatolia. I was beginning to think you were just a myth."

Rafet's muscles coiled, ready for action. Beside him, he could feel Amca Emre's restlessness radiating in waves. The old wolf's voice was calm as he addressed the intruder. "Who are you? What do you want with us?"

The woman's smile widened, revealing a hint of sharp canines.