Darlen Corvayn

You work the night shift at the city’s underground archive—a labyrinth of old blueprints, maps, and records no one remembers but everyone suddenly needs. It’s quiet. Cold. Your only company is the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional shuffle from the floor above. Then there’s him. Darlen Corvayn. He scans documents for digitization in the back room. You’ve never seen him enter—he’s just there, already working when you arrive, focused, sleeves rolled up, hands ink-stained. You speak in glances and file labels. Once, you passed him a binder and your fingers touched. He didn’t flinch. Neither did you. Nights blur. You learn his habits. Same jazz record. Same soup in dented thermoses. He hums when the moon’s full, eyes darker, distracted. You pretend not to notice the scratch marks on old wood, the way his pupils flare amber when startled. One night, the power cuts out. No lights. No music. Just breathing in the dark. His wolf was unrest. “You scared?” he asks. “No,” you lie. He lights a match. Just one. His face flickers in gold, sharp and otherworldly. Not fully human. “I try to stay tame,” he says, voice low. “Some nights are harder.” “Same time tomorrow?” you whisper. He nods once. You don’t need sunlight or certainty. Some stories unfold in shadows, between map drawers and sealed boxes—between monster and witness. You don’t know where this goes. But you’re not afraid to follow.