Book 02 - Chapter Four:

By seven, the breakroom had become what it always became on Fridays:

comfortably ungovernable.

The weekend pizza buffet stretched across the counter, boxes stacked two deep, steam fogging the lids as Hosts drifted in and out, plates balanced on knees and elbows, arguments and laughter overlapping without ever quite colliding.

Charles and Miss LaDonna sat near the center of it all, effortless hosts to a gathering that had never once required invitations.

Oliver stood off to one side, not eating—no one ever saw what went under that mask—flipping idly through a truly obscure nudie magazine whose existence raised more questions than it answered. No one commented. No one needed to.

At one table, Caretaker Collins and Arachna leaned in, moderating what was apparently a very serious philosophical discussion between Deadly, Bob the plastic skull, and Alice the haunted doll. Deadly signed emphatically. Bob stared with unblinking intensity. Alice tilted her head at an angle that suggested she had opinions.

Nearby, Don O’Malley and Timber Wolf—who was startlingly human save for the shock of pure white hair—were deep in conversation with Rob and Catherine.

“I’m telling you,” Don insisted, “1980s home furnishings were a crime against optimism.”

Rob snorted. “Better than the 1930s obsession with permanence.”

“And neither of you have seen the atrocities of 2100,” Timber Wolf added mildly. “Too many glowing surfaces. Not enough places to sit.”

Olivia paused in the doorway, smiling as the sound washed over her.

“Evening,” she called.

A chorus of greetings answered back—waves, nods, one enthusiastic thumbs-up from someone whose name she had learned and forgotten twice already.

She grabbed a slice from the semi-safe stack—mundane-adjacent toppings were quickly becoming her favorite—and crossed the room to her usual seat across from Miss LaDonna.

She sat, took a bite, and sighed contentedly.

The chaos swirled around her. Conversations overlapped. Laughter spiked and faded. Somewhere, a debate about fabric textures became inexplicably heated.

And Olivia just… sat.

Tail relaxed. Ears loose. Pizza warm in her hands.

For all the crowns and cold and strange attentions of the week, this was real. This was hers.

She leaned back slightly, watching it all with quiet satisfaction.

The pizza dwindled, boxes collapsing inward as slices disappeared and conversations drifted and braided together. Olivia was halfway through her second slice when Charles cleared his throat—not loudly, just enough.

“Olivia,” he said gently, “I should remind you—you have a guest arriving tomorrow.”

She groaned softly. “On my day off.”

“I know,” Charles said apologetically. “I truly hate cutting into it. But in this case, following the doctor’s orders seemed… prudent.”

She eyed him over her crust. “You’re still being cagey.”

Charles hesitated.

Miss LaDonna glanced at him, eyebrow lifting. Well?

He sighed—deep, resigned. The sigh of a man who knew secrecy had reached its limit.

“Very well,” he said. “His name is Greymuzzle. He comes from the Northern Reaches of the Wildwood.”

The effect was immediate.

Every conversation in the breakroom stopped.

Deadly’s hands froze mid-sign.

Bob the skull stared harder than usual.

Alice’s head snapped upright.

Oliver lowered his magazine.

Don O’Malley’s mouth hung open.

Even the pizza seemed to lose interest in steaming.

Every animate head turned toward Charles.

Then—slowly—to Olivia.

Concern spread across faces in different ways: alarm, sympathy, quiet dread.

“Oh,” someone breathed.

“That’s… serious,” muttered another.

Timber Wolf frowned deeply. “If he’s coming here…”

Caretaker Collins went very still.

Olivia blinked, suddenly aware that she was the only person in the room not reacting appropriately.

“…Okay,” she said. “That was a reaction. Anyone want to explain why?”

No one answered immediately.

Charles spoke first, carefully. “Greymuzzle is… very knowledgeable about Otherkin. Deeply so.”

“And?” Olivia pressed.

“And very highly regarded,” Miss LaDonna added.

“That’s it?” Olivia said. “Because from where I’m sitting, everyone just looked like I got diagnosed with something terminal.”

A few people winced.

“No, no,” Don said quickly. “Not terminal. Just… intense.”

“Gruff,” Timber Wolf offered.

“Extremely honest,” Arachna said delicately.

Bob the skull said nothing, which somehow felt worse.

Olivia crossed her arms. “You’re all being very unhelpful.”

Charles met her eyes, expression steady. “What I can tell you,” he said, “is that Greymuzzle would not come unless he believed you were worth his time.”

“That doesn’t sound comforting.”

“It isn’t meant to be,” Miss LaDonna said softly. “But it is respect.”

Olivia leaned back in her chair, pizza forgotten, tail flicking once.

“So let me get this straight,” she said. “Tomorrow, on my day off, I’m meeting someone everyone in this room knows, fears slightly, and refuses to describe… because it would ruin the experience.”

No one contradicted her.

“…Great,” Olivia muttered. “Fantastic. Love that for me.”

Around her, the breakroom slowly, cautiously returned to motion—but the mood had shifted. Voices stayed lower. Glances flicked toward her with open concern.

Whatever Greymuzzle was, whatever he did—

If he was coming to the Station for Olivia Harrison, then something important was about to be decided.

And whether she liked it or not, everyone could feel it coming.

After dinner, Olivia went upstairs to her apartment.

The door closed behind her with a familiar, gentle click, and the Station’s hum softened immediately—no longer alert, just companionable. She leaned her forehead briefly against the door, breathed out, then crossed the room and dropped into the armchair by the window.

She picked up her phone and stared at it longer than necessary.

Calling her mum had become a weekly ritual since she’d started at the Station. Not because anything was wrong—usually—but because it anchored her to a version of herself that existed before late nights and strange visitors and conversations that bent reality sideways.

She tapped the contact.

It rang twice.

“Hello, love,” her mum said. “Everything alright?”

Olivia smiled, some tension easing out of her shoulders. “Yeah. Mostly.”

“That ‘mostly’ is doing some work,” Mum said dryly.

“…Yeah.”

They talked around it first, as they always did. Weather. Mum’s neighbour repainting his fence the wrong shade of green. A recipe Olivia should try if she ever remembers to eat like a normal person. Ordinary things—small, solid, real.

Eventually, the pause arrived.

“So,” Mum said gently, “what’s going on?”

Olivia leaned back, staring at the ceiling. She chose her words carefully. She always had to.

“I’ve got a… specialist coming to see me,” she said. “Tomorrow.”

“A doctor?” Mum asked.

“Sort of. More like… a consultant.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Olivia said quickly. “I’m fine. I just—apparently I’m not quite… settled yet.”

Mum hummed. “That happens when you start a new job. Especially in your industry.”

Olivia winced. Hollywood, then. She let it stand.

“Everyone reacted… strongly when they heard his name,” Olivia added. “Which didn’t help.”

“That never helps,” Mum agreed. “But it doesn’t mean something’s wrong. Some people just like being dramatic.”

Olivia snorted softly. “You’d fit in here.”

“I doubt that,” Mum laughed. “I don’t do costumes.”

Olivia swallowed, then ventured carefully, “What if… the people around me see things very differently than I do? About who I am.”

“That’s always been true,” Mum said easily. “You’ve never done things the way other people expect.”

“That’s not exactly reassuring.”

“It’s meant to be accurate.”

Olivia smiled despite herself.

She hesitated, then said, “Also… someone important wants to have tea with me next week.”

“Oh?” Mum perked up. “Important how?”

“Like… symbolic important,” Olivia said, deliberately vague. “One of those people everyone tiptoes around.”

“Boss’s boss?”

“…Something like that.”

Mum snorted. “Then let them have their tea. You’ve never been good at tiptoeing.”

Olivia laughed, tension easing again. “I just don’t want to screw this up.”

“Love,” Mum said firmly, “you’ve never been good at pretending to be something you’re not. That’s why people either adore you or don’t know what to do with you.”

“That doesn’t sound like a survival strategy.”

“It’s kept you alive this long.”

Olivia closed her eyes. “I just needed to talk to someone who remembers me before all this.”

“I remember you now,” Mum said. “You’re still my kid. You just have a job that makes very strange people feel very serious about themselves.”

Olivia laughed softly, a little watery. “That’s one way to put it.”

“Call me tomorrow night,” Mum said. “Tell me how it went. And remember—no matter how fancy or important anyone thinks they are, they still have to earn your respect.”

Olivia straightened instinctively. “Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s my girl.”

They talked a little longer—about nothing, about everything—until the weight in Olivia’s chest eased into something manageable.

When the call ended, the apartment felt quiet, but not lonely.

Whatever tomorrow brought—consultants, judgments, people who took themselves very seriously—Olivia Harrison was still someone’s daughter.

And for now, that was enough.

Saturday morning arrived without asking permission.

The sun wasn’t even considering peeking through the curtains when Olivia was yanked out of sleep by a polite knock on her apartment door.

She groaned, rolled over—

—and then the polite knock was followed by a thunderous impact, like someone was repeatedly hurling a bowling ball against the wood.

The bed shivered beneath her.

“…What the hell,” Olivia muttered.

Another WHAM rattled the doorframe.

She sat up, ears flat, heart thudding, then swung her legs over the side of the bed and grabbed her short robe, tying it hastily as she padded into the living room.

One more heavy THUD.

“That door is not reinforced for—” she began, yanking it open.

Charles stood in the hallway, looking—of all things—sheepish.

Beside him was a wolf.

No.

That word did not begin to cover it.

This was a large wolf. Massive. His shoulder came up well above Olivia’s waist, his body all dense muscle and old power. His fur was dark, nearly black, streaked through with iron-grey, especially around a broad, scarred muzzle filled with long, unmistakably sharp teeth. His eyes were pale and intelligent and already deeply unimpressed.

Charles opened his mouth. “Olivia, I’m terribly sorry to wake you so—”

The wolf shoved past him.

Literally shoved.

He barged straight into Olivia’s apartment, head high, nostrils flaring as he inhaled deeply, turning in a slow circle. His claws clicked faintly on the floor as he paced, muttering under his breath in a gravelly voice.

“Pitiful,” he growled.

“Soft walls. Stale air.”

“A two-legged creature playing at instinct.”

Olivia stood frozen in the doorway, mouth open.

“…You brought a wolf into my apartment,” she said faintly.

The wolf stopped and turned his head toward her, eyes raking over her from ears to tail, lingering in obvious disdain.

“Not wolf,” he snapped. “Pack Alpha.”

Charles winced. “Greymuzzle, please—”

“Silence, Twoleg’s keeper,” the wolf cut in without even looking at him. “You asked me to come. I have come.”

He stepped closer to Olivia, looming, nose lifting again as he sniffed her scent directly.

She bristled instantly.

“Hey,” she said sharply. “Personal space.”

Greymuzzle huffed a low, humorless sound. “You smell of corridors. Of clocks. Of people. Of permission.”

His lip curled slightly. “Pathetic excuse of a two-legged creature. Not worthy of teaching.”

That did it.

Olivia’s ears flattened hard. “Excuse you?”

Charles finally found his footing again, stepping between them just enough to keep things from escalating immediately. “Olivia,” he said gently, “this is Greymuzzle. Alpha of the Pack of the Northern Reaches of the Wildwood.”

Greymuzzle’s tail lashed once, heavy and controlled.

“You asked for help,” the wolf said bluntly. “I came. And this is what I find?” He gestured dismissively at the apartment. “A shepherd who sleeps in a nest and wonders why she howls in dreams.”

Olivia’s heart pounded. Part fury. Part something colder and deeper.

“I didn’t ask to be insulted,” she snapped.

Greymuzzle’s eyes gleamed. “Good. Then perhaps you still have teeth.”

Charles cleared his throat nervously. “Greymuzzle has… strong opinions.”

“I have standards,” Greymuzzle corrected. “And so far, little guardian, you disappoint.”

He turned away again, stalking toward the window, sniffing the air beyond the glass.

“Show me,” he said at last, without looking back, “why I should not leave.”

The apartment felt suddenly very small.

And Olivia realized—with a strange mix of anger and anticipation—that whatever this morning was about to become, it would not be gentle.

Greymuzzle had arrived.

And he was not impressed.

Charles took the armchair by the window and sat, folding his hands as if this were an afternoon appointment rather than a dawn invasion. He watched the two of them with calm, steady interest, intervening only when absolutely necessary.

Olivia crossed her arms. “You could have knocked.”

“I did,” Greymuzzle rumbled. “You did not answer.”

“You hit the door.”

“A door is a boundary,” Greymuzzle said. “Boundaries are tested.”

Charles cleared his throat mildly. “We usually test them after breakfast.”

Greymuzzle flicked an ear, unimpressed, and turned back to Olivia. “You stand too straight. You talk too much. You waste energy.”

Olivia bristled. “I’m allowed to talk in my own home.”

“You are allowed,” Greymuzzle agreed. “You are not required.”

She took a step forward. “You don’t get to barge in here and—”

“—and speak truth?” Greymuzzle interrupted. “Yes. I do.”

Charles lifted a finger. “Greymuzzle.”

The wolf’s tail stilled. He did not look at Charles, but he did pause.

“You asked me here,” Greymuzzle said, quieter now, but no kinder. “I see a shepherd who burns herself out watching doors that do not need watching. A wolf who asks permission to breathe. A creature split in half, leaking effort.”

Olivia opened her mouth to argue—then stopped.

Charles spoke gently. “Olivia, you asked for honesty.”

She swallowed. “I didn’t ask to be called a waste.”

Greymuzzle’s gaze sharpened. “I said you waste energy. That is not the same thing.”

“How is that better?”

“It is correctable.”

Greymuzzle paced a slow circle around the room, claws clicking softly. “You think movement is exercise. It is not. You think rest is stillness. It is not. You think desire quiets hunger. It does not.”

He stopped in front of her again. “You are hungry.”

Olivia snapped, “I just ate pizza last night.”

Charles hid a smile behind his hand.

Greymuzzle did not. “Not that hunger.”

Silence settled.

Finally, Olivia exhaled sharply. “So what, you’re here to tell me I’m doing everything wrong?”

“No,” Greymuzzle said. “I am here to decide if teaching you would be a waste.”

That landed like a slap.

Charles leaned forward, voice even. “And?”

Greymuzzle studied Olivia for a long, assessing moment—her posture, her breath, the way her weight shifted without her noticing.

“…Undetermined,” he said at last.

Olivia let out a humorless laugh. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said all morning.”

Greymuzzle huffed. “Do not mistake restraint for kindness.”

Charles rose smoothly. “How about this,” he suggested. “No judgments for the next hour. Only observation.”

Greymuzzle considered. Then nodded once. “Acceptable.”

Olivia stared. “Someone called me that yesterday.”

“Yes,” Greymuzzle said. “It means you may continue.”

She rubbed her face. “Great. Thrilled.”

Greymuzzle turned toward the door. “Come,” he said. “If you wish to prove you are not a waste.”

“Where?”

“Outside,” he replied. “Away from walls.”

Charles smiled softly. “I’ll be here.”

Olivia hesitated—then squared her shoulders.

“Fine,” she said. “But if you insult my apartment again—”

Greymuzzle’s mouth curved, just barely. “Then you will growl.”

He walked through the still open the door.

And Olivia followed.

They crossed the rusted fence line behind the Station and disappeared into the overgrown field beyond—knee-high grass, scrub, and wildflowers reclaiming land no one bothered to tame. From here, the building was just another forgotten structure, and any mundane who glimpsed them would see only shadows and movement and decide it was none of their business.

Greymuzzle wasted no time.

“Run,” he said.

Olivia ran.

He tested her for an hour.

Sprints that stopped without warning. Sudden turns. Crawling through grass until her knees burned. Listening exercises with her eyes closed. Tracking without a target. Holding still while her muscles screamed to move.

“Too loud.”

“Too stiff.”

“You think before you feel.”

“Waste.”

“Again.”

By the end of it, Olivia was shaking.

She dropped to her knees in the grass, breath tearing in and out of her chest, palms pressed to the earth. Sweat dampened her fur. Her ears rang. Her pride hurt worse than her legs.

Greymuzzle circled her slowly, tail high, muttering under his breath.

“Pitiful,” he said. “You perform like you want approval. You move like you expect permission.”

Olivia snarled weakly. “You could try… encouragement.”

He stopped behind her.

She felt it before she saw it—his presence shifting, intent sharpening.

There was a sudden, sharp snap as Greymuzzle drove his clawed forepaw into the ground inches from her thigh, raking a deep line through soil and grass, then deliberately dragged his shoulder and flank across her back, grinding his scent into her fur—dominant, unmistakable, claiming space without harming her.

It was invasive.

Startling.

Unignorable.

Olivia yelped, twisting around with a furious shout, lunging to strike—

Greymuzzle was already gone, dancing back out of reach with shocking speed, eyes bright for the first time.

“There,” he barked.

“Now.”

She froze.

Her heart slammed once—hard.

“That,” he said, voice suddenly alive, “is what it takes to wake you. You needed insult. You needed challenge. You needed to stop asking.”

Olivia’s hands curled into fists. Her breathing steadied—not calmer, but focused.

“You absolute bastard,” she growled.

Greymuzzle grinned, teeth flashing.

“Good,” he said. “Now we can begin.”

The field felt different now.

Not safe.

Not gentle.

Honest.

And Olivia realized—burning, furious, alive—that for the first time since her unfolding, someone had stopped treating her like something fragile.

Greymuzzle turned away and padded toward the tree line.

“Up,” he ordered. “You’re not finished.”

And this time—

Olivia didn’t hesitate.

All through the morning, Greymuzzle trained her.

There was no breakfast.

No pause to “check in.”

No concession to comfort.

When Olivia slowed, he growled.

When she complained, he stopped her cold.

“Pathetic two-leg,” he snapped when she faltered, circling her with measured disdain. “A true wolf does not beg. Does not ask. Does not whine.”

“I’m not whining,” Olivia shot back, breath ragged.

Greymuzzle turned on her instantly. “You spoke.”

She shut her mouth, jaw tight.

“Better,” he said. “Learn the difference.”

He drove her forward again—through tall grass, through uneven ground, up shallow rises and down again. He corrected her posture with a barked word, her breathing with a sharp look, her hesitation with silence that cut worse than shouting.

When she tried to explain herself, he interrupted.

“A wolf is,” he told her. “It does not justify its existence.”

Her legs burned. Her shoulders ached. Her lungs felt scraped raw. More than once she stumbled, caught herself on instinct alone, and hated how close she’d come to falling.

“Again,” Greymuzzle said.

She growled under her breath—but she went.

At some point—she couldn’t say when—the complaints thinned. Not because it was easier, but because they were wasted effort.

Greymuzzle noticed.

“You learn,” he said grudgingly. “Slowly.”