The building didn’t belong in this part of the city.

It stood like a wound stitched in marble and steel—clean, glassy, sharp-edged. Too new for the cracked sidewalks and graffiti-tagged brick around it. Like someone had ripped it out of a richer neighborhood and dropped it here as a joke.

The man at the gate didn’t say anything when I walked in.

Didn’t ask my name.

Didn’t check for weapons.

He just opened the door.

The air inside smelled like money. Polished wood and citrus oil. Soft music floated from hidden speakers, and the floor gleamed so bright I could see my reflection, tired eyes and all.

“Fancy,” Nyx muttered.

“This is a test,” I whispered back.

“You think?”

I stepped deeper in.

The receptionist—if you could call the suited woman behind the obsidian desk that—barely looked at me before pressing a button.

“They’re waiting.”

No name. No direction.

Just they.

An elevator opened at the end of the hall. I walked toward it, half-expecting it to shut before I got there.

It didn’t.

Inside, the walls were mirrored. I watched myself climb in, watched the doors seal shut behind me. The elevator didn’t move. Not at first.

Then the lights flickered, once.

And I dropped.

Not fast. Not dangerously.

But it wasn’t going up.

Basement.

I reached the bottom with a soft chime and stepped out into something entirely different.

Gone was the elegance. The polished marble.

This place was industrial. Cold. Lit with harsh fluorescents. The walls were concrete, stained and cracked. And I could smell sweat, oil, blood. It wasn’t a hallway. It was a cage.

Three people waited.

Two stood by the door. Big. Unsmiling. Armed.

The third sat on a folding chair, flipping a coin between her fingers. She looked young—maybe twenty. Brown skin, hair in tight braids, boots scuffed from real work.

She looked up at me and smiled.

“Welcome to orientation.”

I said nothing.

She flicked the coin once more, then stood.

“You want in, you earn it. No handouts here. No special treatment.”

“Fine.”

She tossed me something.

I caught it on reflex.

A knife.

“You’ll need that.”

“Why?”

She pointed.

A steel door hissed open at the far end of the room.

From it came a man, shackled and grinning. Blood dried on his shirt like a badge. His eyes gleamed wild.

“He’s one of ours,” she said. “Went rogue. Sold info to a rival crew.”

“And you want me to kill him.”

“No,” she said. “We want you to survive him.”

Then she stepped back.

The man lunged.

He was fast—too fast for a human. His grin widened as he moved, and I knew. He wasn’t just jacked up on rage.

He was like me.

“Wolf,” Nyx hissed. “Not a strong one. But still.”

He came at me with feral speed, claws half-shifted, teeth bared.

I didn’t scream.

I didn’t run.

I let the shift take me.

Bones cracked. Skin rippled. Nyx howled through me, delighted, “FINALLY.”

We met him head-on.

He was wild.

I was precise.

He slashed. I ducked. He grabbed. I twisted. He tried to bite—

I buried the knife in his thigh and swept his legs out from under him.

He hit the ground hard. I didn’t wait. I slammed my elbow into his jaw, twisted the blade, and hissed into his face.

“Stay down.”

He spat blood.

I hit him again.

And again.

Until the guards pulled me off, and the girl clapped slowly from the shadows.

“Nice form,” she said. “Controlled. Efficient. You didn’t kill him.”

“You said survive. Not slaughter.”

She nodded, approving.

Then she grinned. “You’ll do.”

The steel door hissed again, this time opening to a hallway lined with actual lights. Cleaner. Brighter.

The girl tossed me a towel.

"Clean up. Your real work starts tomorrow."