Ethan hung up the phone with a sigh, the headset’s plastic creaking as he set it down on his cluttered desk at RJ’s Fashions. The cubicle’s gray walls loomed, the hum of fluorescent lights and distant keyboard clacks filling the air, tinged with the faint scent of burnt coffee from the break room. His fingers twitched, irritation lingering from the call’s absurdity. “Problems?” Tony asked, peering over the cubicle divider, his tie askew, his grin teasing under the office’s harsh glare. “The woman wanted to pay over the phone with cash,” Ethan grumbled, leaning back. “How’s that work?” Hector rolled his chair back, his head popping around the divider, his eyes glinting with amusement. “She thought she could read me the bills’ serial numbers.” Ethan rolled his eyes, the memory of her earnest voice almost laughable. Tony laughed, the sound sharp in the quiet office. “Gotta love the full moon. Brings out the crazies.” Hector snorted, his chair creaking. “Ethan likes the full moon. He does his best work then.” Ethan’s smile faltered, Hector’s words hitting too close. He did handle the full moon’s chaos better than most, a knack he’d never questioned until learning his mother was a werewolf. Was it her blood in him, stirring under the lunar pull? “Maybe, but if today’s like that call, I’ll need a drink tonight,” he said, forcing a grin, his fingers tapping the desk. “Well, someone’s going to have a bad day,” Hector said, his gaze shifting toward the office entrance. Ethan and Tony craned their necks, the cubicle walls blocking their view. Winters strode in, his suit crisp, his face a mask of authority, flanked by an S.P.A. agent in full body armor, the black plating glinting under the lights, helmet obscuring their face. The office chatter died, replaced by uneasy whispers, the air heavy with dread. “What’re they doing here?” Tony asked, his voice low, his eyes darting. “Think someone’s a rogue monster?” Hector chuckled, nudging Ethan. “Yeah, Ethan. He’s the only one who loves the full moon.” Ethan forced a laugh, but his stomach twisted as their supervisor pointed their way, Winters’ cold gaze locking onto them. The armored agent approached, boots thudding on the carpet, the helmet’s visor a blank stare. Ethan cringed, realizing they were coming for him. “Ethan Barlow?” The agent’s voice, distorted by the helmet, was unmistakably Alex’s. Why the armor? Ethan played along, his pulse quickening. “Yes?” “We need you to come with us,” Alex instructed, his tone clipped, authoritative. “Leave him alone,” Tony snapped, rising, his chair scraping. “He’s human.” “Quiet, or you’ll join him,” Alex warned, his armored hand flexing, the threat sharp despite the visor’s anonymity. “He didn’t do anything,” Hector protested, his voice rising. “I said quiet,” Alex barked, his voice cutting through the office’s tension. “Guys, it’ll be fine,” Ethan said, standing, his voice calm but his heart racing. He grabbed his jacket, the fabric cool against his fingers, and followed, the office’s eyes burning into his back. Winters joined them, his polished shoes silent on the carpet. “Mr. Barlow, we need to ask you some questions. You’re part Native American, aren’t you?” His voice was smooth, but his eyes were predatory, assessing. Ethan stiffened, his jaw tightening. “I am.” The question felt like a trap, his heritage a distant echo. “Good. Come with us. We have questions about your culture.” Winters’ tone was final, a command disguised as a request. Alex grabbed Ethan’s arm, the armor’s grip firm but not bruising. Ethan yanked free, glaring, but followed. In the elevator, the air was stale, the hum of descent loud in the confined space. Ethan faced Alex, his voice low. “I don’t know jack about my Native American half. My grandparents cut my mom off for marrying a white man.” Alex lifted his visor, revealing his tired hazel eyes, the armor’s weight etching lines into his face. “We don’t need you for that. It was an excuse to avoid revealing your involvement with us yet.” His voice was quiet, conspiratorial. “Then what’s going on?” Ethan pressed, his fingers tightening on his jacket. “We need to clean out magic from a nest,” Alex said, his gaze flicking to Winters, who stood impassive, his suit a stark contrast to the armored bulk beside him. “What kind of nest?” Ethan asked, unease coiling in his gut. Alex hesitated, his eyes meeting Winters’. “Necromancers,” Winters said flatly, his voice like a blade, cutting through the elevator’s hum. “Necromancers?” Alex echoed, his voice rising with alarm. “We need to contact the wizards. They should handle this.” “The necromancers are taken care of,” Winters said, his tone unyielding. “We just want the apartment building cleared of latent magic. You can handle it.” “Just us two?” Ethan asked, his voice sharp, his inexperience in the field a sudden weight. He’d never faced a mission, let alone a necromancer’s aftermath. “Nick and Kellen are in the van,” Alex assured him, his voice steadying, though his gloved hands flexed, betraying tension. Winters nodded, his eyes cold. “The dog’s a good guard. The vampire knows what he’s doing.” “It’s daytime,” Ethan pointed out, his mind flashing to Nick’s reaction to sunlight. “He’s got his armor,” Winters said dismissively. “More blood’s available at the base if he needs it.” “He will,” Alex muttered, his voice low, a warning Winters ignored. The elevator slowed, its ding sharp in the quiet. Alex lowered his visor, the helmet sealing his identity, though Ethan wondered who he was hiding from. Most knew Alex Tormane worked for the S.P.A., but his armored guise suggested a deeper secrecy, perhaps shielding his role as more than a bureaucrat. The doors opened, revealing the parking garage’s concrete chill, the van’s black bulk waiting, its engine idling, Kellen’s silhouette faint through tinted windows, the S.P.A.’s shadow stretching long into the daylight.