Howl of the Forgotten

THE CITY REMEMBERS

Rain thickened outside, pattering against the windows in uneven rhythms. The bar carried the scent of old wood and whiskey soaked into grain. Luca sat motionless. The bartender across from him worked their jaw like they were chewing on fear.

“Start talking,” Luca said. Not harsh. Not impatient. Simply a directive.

The bartender braced both hands on the counter. “There were stories about you long before the fire. Stories about the way you could cross a street and every predator in the city looked away. Stories about how gangs called truces when you were near.” He shook his head. “Not because you were violent — but because they knew you could be. Knew exactly what would happen if you decided to.”

Luca listened. The words did not feel like compliments. They felt like ghosts.

“What was I?” Luca asked.

The bartender’s eyes flicked up. “You were the one who kept the balance. Criminals, politicians, monsters—something about you and your people… kept them from tearing each other apart.”

“My people,” Luca repeated softly.

The bartender swallowed. “The Pack.”

Luca didn’t react outwardly, but something inside him clicked — like a hand sliding into a glove it used to know well.

“And Rhea?” Luca asked.

Silence stretched for a long time.

The bartender’s voice grew quiet. Heavy. “She was the one who could calm you. The only one who could speak when the full moon hit and you—”

He stopped himself, shaking his head as if even the memory carried danger.

Luca felt a flicker of something — not anger, not sadness — something quieter. A pressure. A presence inside his chest, as if waiting to be acknowledged.

“What happened to the Pack?” Luca asked.

The bartender didn’t answer.

Someone else did.

A chair scraped in the back corner of the room. Footsteps approached. Slow. Deliberate. The same kind of measured pace Luca had — trained, controlled.

Luca didn’t turn. He just listened.

A woman slid into the stool beside him. No perfume. No jewelry. Just a leather coat and rainwater still dripping from her hair.

“You picked a bad night to come back, Luca,” she said softly.

Her voice carried gravel — like someone who had smoked too much, screamed too much, or lived too long in places where silence was dangerous.

Luca turned his head just enough to see her.

Sharp eyes. Not afraid — but evaluating. Like someone checking where the exits were before speaking.

“You know me,” Luca said.

She huffed something between a laugh and a sigh. “Everyone used to know you.”

Her gaze held the kind of grief that turns knives into memories.

“But now?” she said. “Now you’re a ghost. And ghosts tend to get hunted in this city.”

Luca considered her. “Your name.”

“Marrow,” she answered. “Just Marrow.”

The bartender stepped back, as if giving the two space. Or as if he didn’t want to be involved in what came next.

Marrow leaned her forearms onto the counter. “I’m going to tell you something, and you’re not going to like it.” Her voice was steady, but her fingers tapped once against the wood — a tell of nerves despite her control. “The Pack is shattered. Scattered. Some went into hiding. Some joined the Order to survive. Some…” her voice tightened, “…died waiting for you to come back.”

A beat of quiet.

Outside, thunder rolled like distant artillery.

Luca didn’t move. Didn’t exhale. But inside—

Something howled.

Not in memory. Not in fear.

In recognition.

“Who killed them?” Luca asked.

Marrow’s eyes shifted — not away — but inward. Calculating what answer would matter.

“No one killed them,” she said. “They killed each other. After you disappeared, there was no Alpha. No center. The moon hit, and there was no voice strong enough to hold them. It was chaos.”

Luca felt the pressure in his chest tighten. Not guilt — guilt requires memory. This was something deeper. Something bone-deep. Something old.

“Then someone burned the nightclub,” Luca said.

Marrow nodded once. “To erase you.” She paused. “Or to erase what was left of you.”

The bartender flinched at the wording.

The lights flickered as if the storm outside remembered something too.

Luca spoke carefully. “Rhea was part of this.”

Marrow didn’t look away. “Rhea was the center of you. Which makes her the most important piece in this entire mess.”

“And she betrayed me,” Luca said — not as a question, but as a shape of the truth.

Marrow didn’t speak.

She didn’t need to.

Luca stood.

Marrow stood too — instinctively — like her body remembered that when Luca moved, the world changed shape.

“Where is she?” he asked.

Marrow’s jaw tightened. “That depends on who you ask. Some say she’s hiding. Some say the Order took her. Some say she’s running from you.”

Luca’s expression didn’t change. “And you? What do you think?”

Marrow held his gaze. There was no hesitation in her answer.

“I think she broke you to save the city from what you were becoming.”

A quiet passed between them. Not empty. Heavy.

Luca didn’t blink. “Then I need to know what I was.”

Marrow nodded slowly. “Then we need to move. Now. Because the people who burned that nightclub?” She flicked her gaze to the door. “They’re already looking for you.”

The sirens outside cut suddenly — replaced by the deeper, lower growl of black-engine SUVs rolling slow.

Luca didn’t turn. He didn’t need to.

His voice was calm. Controlled.

“Back door?”

The bartender pointed with shaking hands.

Marrow moved first — fast but silent.

Luca followed — steady, unhurried, like someone who did not fear being caught.

As they slipped out into the rain-slick alley, Marrow whispered:

“You really don’t remember any of it, do you?”

Luca looked ahead, jaw set, eyes dark, something ancient pressing against the inside of his ribs like it wanted out.

“No,” he said.

Marrow exhaled — not relief, not frustration — something closer to dread.

“Then the city is already in trouble.”