Howl of the Forgotten

The world returned to him slowly — as if waking wasn’t something that happened all at once, but in pieces.

Sound came first.

A low, distant groan of steel. The faint tick-tick-tick of cooling metal. Then the sirens, far off but approaching, weaving through the city like angry red serpents. Luca lay on his side, cheek pressed against cracked tile still warm from fire. Smoke grazed his throat when he breathed, bitter and chemical. Somewhere above him, a ceiling girder groaned, threatening to collapse. Ash fell around him in soft, lazy flakes.

He didn’t move at first. He just breathed — long, controlled, steady. The breath of someone trained not to panic.

Then the scent hit him.

Blood.

Not fresh. Not old. Not human.

Something in his ribs tightened, a reflex he didn’t remember learning. His fingers curled against the floor. His heartbeat slowed, not sped.

Danger, his body said.

He opened his eyes.

The nightclub was ruin. What had once been mirrored walls and pulsing colored light was now a blackened husk. Tables melted into the floor. Speakers split and oozing. The bar charred down to bones of metal and glass. The air shimmered with heat still trapped under the collapsing roof.

And bodies.

Some burned beyond recognition. Some broken. Some torn.

He took this in without flinching. Not because he didn’t care — but because something in him already knew this scene. Had lived it. Had caused it, maybe.

His throat felt raw. His muscles heavy. His mind — blank. Not just fogged. Empty.

Name. he thought.

But no name came.

Then — like a whisper rising from somewhere deep inside him:

“Luca.”

He didn’t know if it was memory or instinct. The name just fit his bones. Solid. Familiar. Not warm — but true.

He pushed himself up slowly. His hands were steady, though they trembled afterward. Skin streaked with soot. Fingernails cracked. A cut across his forearm, shallow but jagged. Nothing fatal.

His clothes — black shirt, boots, jacket — were scorched but intact. He recognized the quality: durable, utilitarian, made for movement.

Sirens grew louder.

He needed to move.

He stood, the motion fluid, practiced. His balance belonged to a fighter — not the sloppy sway of a drunk, not the stiff poise of a soldier. Something looser. Animal, almost.

He stepped over a collapsed beam and the scent of blood thickened.

His breath changed without him deciding it should. Deeper. Slower. Controlled.

His senses sharpened.

He didn’t remember how to do that.

He just did.

Something flickered in his memory — moonlight glinting on wet concrete, his own shadow stretching long and distorted, a sound rising from his throat that wasn’t human.

But the image vanished before he could chase it.

He reached the broken doorway. The street outside was wet, neon reflecting in puddles, the city breathing steam and noise. Somewhere someone laughed. Somewhere someone screamed. The sirens were close now, blocks away.

He stepped out into the night.

The air was cold. Sharp. Clean compared to the burned taste behind him.

The city sprawled in every direction — towers like teeth, alleyways like veins, lights like hungry eyes. He didn’t know its name, but it felt familiar. Not safe. But known. The way a battlefield is known to a soldier.

A passerby glanced at him. Their eyes widened — recognition flickered — then they looked away quickly, head down, pace speeding up.

He watched them go.

People didn’t react that way to strangers.

They reacted to danger.

He touched the inside of his jacket, searching — not sure why — and found nothing. No wallet. No phone. No weapon.

But when a car backfired somewhere down the block, his head snapped toward the sound before he even realized he’d reacted.

Too fast. Too exact.

His reflexes remembered even if his mind did not.

The sirens hit the block.

He turned and walked. Not rushed. Just steady. As if he belonged here. As if he had somewhere to go.

He didn’t.

He crossed under a flickering streetlamp. Rain began in thin drops that gradually thickened. He didn’t shiver. The cold didn’t touch him much. Or it did, and he ignored it. Hard to tell which.

He passed a boarded storefront.

A voice drifted from a side alley.

“…I’m telling you, he’s back. I heard the howl myself.”

Another voice scoffed. “You’re drunk.”

“Not drunk enough to forget that sound.”

Luca stopped walking.

The first voice continued, hushed: “The Pack doesn’t move unless the Alpha calls. If he’s really back—”

“Shut up.” The second voice. Nervous now. “They’ll hear you.”

Luca turned his head just slightly.

Not enough to be seen as threatening.

Just enough to listen.

The first voice dropped to a whisper. “The nightclub burned for a reason. Someone wanted to erase him. But the city remembers. And the Order—”

A sharp, loud crack — the sound of a slap.

“Say that name again and I’ll break your jaw.”

Silence. Then footsteps retreating.

Luca stood very still.

Alpha. Pack. Order.

Words with weight.

His hands curled slowly at his sides. Not fists — just tension. Controlled.

His memory did not return.

But something like identity began to stir.

He walked again.

He didn’t know where he was going until he was already there.

A bar. Small. Quiet. Light glowing warm through dirty windows. The kind of place where the city came to admit truths it couldn’t say in daylight.

The sign overhead flickered: MIRROR’S END.

He didn’t remember it.

But his body loosened, just slightly, as if it did.

He pushed the door open.

Warm light. Old wood. Low music humming from a dusty radio. A bartender wiping glasses with a cloth that looked older than the building.

The bartender looked up.

Their eyes met.

The glass slipped from the bartender’s hand and shattered.

“You,” the bartender whispered.

Luca paused in the doorway. Calm. Polite. Deadly still.

“You know me,” Luca said. His voice was low. Rough, like smoke scraped the edges of each word. But even and controlled.

The bartender swallowed hard. “Everyone knows you.”

A beat. Movement behind Luca — someone shifting in a corner booth. Someone deciding whether to leave.

The bartender raised a hand. “Don’t run. He won’t chase you.”

Luca didn’t look behind him. Didn’t need to.

He stepped forward and sat at the bar.

The stool didn’t creak. He did not fidget. He simply existed with a presence that took up more space than his body should.

The bartender’s voice shook slightly. “Luca Morrow.”

There. The name again. Confirmed.

Luca nodded once. “Tell me who I am.”

The bartender stared — fear, awe, grief, all tangled. “You were the one who kept this city from tearing itself apart.”

Luca didn’t react outwardly.

Inside, something cold shifted.

The bartender’s voice dropped to a whisper:

“And then you were betrayed.”

Luca’s breath was slow. Steady.

“By who?”

The bartender closed their eyes.

The name came out broken:

“Rhea.”

And in Luca’s mind —

Then—

Just the sound of his own heart.

Steady.

Controlled.

Waiting.