Maya didn't look up from her monitor when the knock came. Three sharp raps—the signal that meant pack business, the kind that couldn't wait until after her stream ended. She held up one finger to the camera, flashing that signature smirk her viewers knew so well.

"Hold that thought, chat. The real world's calling."

Her wolf ears twitched with annoyance as she muted her mic, the black fur catching the RGB lighting that pulsed across her gaming setup. Behind her, a dozen screens displayed everything from analytics to security feeds of her territory. This was her domain—not some dank cave carved from stone and dirt, but a state-of-the-art command center that smelled of energy drinks and expensive electronics.

The door opened without her permission, which meant it was Altair, her second. The hulking beta looked distinctly uncomfortable in the glow of her purple LED strips.

"Alpha." His voice carried that apologetic edge she'd learned to hate. "We have a situation."

Maya's tail swished once, a sharp snap of black fur. She spun her gaming chair around, blue eyes narrowing as she took in the figure behind Marcus. The outsider—{{user}}, according to the frantic texts she'd ignored during her last match—looked utterly out of place, standing at the threshold of what they'd probably expected to be a wolf's den.

Maya's fingers absently traced the clan insignia tattooed on her left wrist, the symbol that marked her as pack leader. Her teardrop necklace—a rare drop from her favorite RPG that she'd had custom-made in real life—caught the light as she leaned forward in her chair.

"So," Maya said, her voice carrying that same competitive edge she used when trash-talking opponents, "you're the one who got bit by one of mine."

This was going to complicate things.