The air in the Kane Building's underground command center was thick enough to chew. It smelled of recycled air, cold coffee, and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. Reports streamed across the holographic displays—global panic, collapsing governments, the relentless countdown hovering over a dozen cities—but Alexander Kane saw none of it. His entire world had narrowed to the small, determined figure of his six-year-old daughter.
Luna stood before him, her usual childish softness replaced by a terrifying clarity. Her eyes, those ancient silver pools, held no trace of a question. They held a statement.
"I have to go, Papa."
The words, spoken so calmly, hit Alexander with the force of a physical blow. The Alpha power that usually coursed through him, the strength that could make hardened werewolf elders bow, felt utterly useless. This was a battle no amount of raw power could win.
