Chapter 3: Scents of Blood

Night had fallen over Tokyo, but the Lycan Hunter Corps’ rooftop terraces still glowed with floodlights. Shiro stood alone at the edge, katana sheathed, pistol holstered, watching the city breathe beneath him. The encounter with Ryo in the courtyard still replayed in his mind—how the man’s pleading eyes had stopped his blade.

Aiko’s voice crackled through his comm unit. “Shiro, we have a priority alert. Possible werewolf activity in Asakusa. Civilians reported screams. I’m dispatching coordinates now.”

Shiro exhaled, rubbing the cut on his forearm. “On my way.”

He vaulted over the parapet, landing silently on the next building’s ledge. Moonlight glinted off his white hair as he sprinted across rooftops, every footfall precise. Below, the neon signs of Asakusa’s market district flickered amid deserted stalls and overturned carts.

He dropped to the street and activated his HUD. A red dot pulsed fifty meters ahead. Shiro drew his pistol and advanced, senses alert to every rustle.

Ahead, a figure stumbled through the alley—a man in blood-soaked clothes, face contorted in a grimace. Behind him, a snarling wolf form blurred into view, claws ripping at a vending machine. The man clutched his side, stumbling over debris.

Shiro fired once. The argent bullet struck the werewolf’s shoulder; it yelped, transforming mid-growl into a man with ragged breathing. He collapsed.

Shiro holstered his pistol and approached. “Stand back,” he called to Aiko, who’d arrived with two Corps medics.

The man on the ground—unshackled this time—looked up, fear in his eyes. Shiro recognized him instantly: Ryo, the same he had spared two days ago.

“Hunter… please,” Ryo gasped, blood pooling around him.

Aiko knelt beside him, checking vitals. “He’s alive, but in bad shape.”

Shiro’s dark eyes hardened. “Why are you here? You were in holding.”

Ryo coughed, voice trembling. “They… they helped me escape. Said I was a weapon. I had to run.”

Shiro knelt, anger and confusion warring in his chest. “Run? You fled justice—”

A siren wailed in the distance. Shiro’s HUD pinged with a new alert: Multiple civilian deaths reported, Asakusa Sector.

Aiko’s face went pale. “Shiro… these bodies. Victims—stab wounds. Victims of a wolf attack.”

Shiro’s blood ran cold. “Ryo… you—”

Ryo’s eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t want to hurt them. I only ran… but the blood… the scent—it called to me.”

Shiro clenched his fists. “You betrayed my mercy.”

Ryo whimpered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know—”

Shiro rose, heart pounding. He sheathed his katana with deliberate calm. “Take him in. I’ll inspect the scene.”

The market district was a tableau of horror: overturned carts, shattered glass, and three lifeless bodies—two street vendors and a tourist. Their throats had been torn open; dark crimson pooled beneath them.

Shiro knelt by the closest corpse, inhaling the metallic scent. His vision blurred for a moment as the realization hit: mercy had cost lives. He stood, voice cold. “Seal off the area. No one in or out until forensics arrive.”

Aiko approached, voice low. “Shiro, you spared him. You believed in redemption.”

He turned, face shadowed. “Redemption isn’t ours to grant. It’s earned—or not at all.”

Aiko studied him, concern in her eyes. “This will change you.”

Shiro didn’t answer. He walked among the stalls, each overturned table a reminder of his failure. He stopped at a broken lantern, its red paper torn. “I failed them,” he muttered.

Back at headquarters, the corridors felt colder. Shiro entered the debrief room where Master Takeda waited, arms folded. Ryo was shackled to a chair, gaunt and trembling.

Takeda’s gaze swept the scene. “You recognized him.”

Shiro nodded. “I spared him. He escaped and killed innocents.”

Takeda’s jaw tightened. “Mercy has a cost.”

Shiro’s fists clenched at his sides. “I won’t hesitate again.”

Takeda’s voice was steady. “Good. Because soon you’ll face challenges beyond these walls.”

Shiro’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Takeda slid a dossier across the table. On its cover: Operation Silver Alliance.

Shiro opened it to find photos of foreign agents—hunters from the Euro-Lycan Taskforce—training in Paris, armed with new prototypes: crossbows firing silver bolts, experimental sonic grenades.

“We’ve been invited to cooperate,” Takeda explained. “Europe’s pack activity has spiked. They need our expertise, and we need theirs. You’ll join a joint mission in two weeks.”

Shiro closed the dossier. “International cooperation.”

Takeda nodded. “They fight differently. You’ll learn new tactics—and perhaps teach them ours.”

Shiro’s eyes darkened as he thought of Ryo’s betrayal. “I’ll be ready.”

Later, Shiro returned to the rooftop terrace, the city lights twinkling like distant stars. He drew his katana and gazed at the blade’s edge, still stained faintly from the courtyard exercise. He whispered to the night wind: “Mercy… or justice. I must choose wisely.”

Aiko joined him, holding two cups of tea. She handed one to Shiro. “Operation Silver Alliance… Are you looking forward to it?”

He accepted the cup, fingers brushing hers. “I need to see how others fight. Maybe there’s a balance—mercy without regret.”

She smiled softly. “Just promise me you won’t carry this alone.”

Shiro met her gaze. For a moment, his expression softened. “I promise.”

Below, Tokyo pulsed with life—oblivious to the hunters who protected it, and to the wolves that still roamed in its shadows. Shiro took a sip of tea, the warmth spreading through him. The hunt was far from over. But now, he carried a new resolve: to temper his mercy with caution, and to learn from allies across the world—lest more innocents fall to the scent of blood.