Werewolf in the Elite Circle

Every year, on God Procession Day, Luna pressed herself against the window, eyes fixed on the towering statues moving through the streets.

She had always feared this day. For as long as she could remember, the same nightmare haunted her: a god statue leading the procession, grinning with unnatural glee, cradling a small child in its hands. Each time she woke, the image lingered, the child’s eyes hollow and pleading, a silent echo of some unknown danger.

Eight years ago, when her family had first moved to Rong City, her younger sister believed their failure to honor the local temple had angered the gods. She went to ask the village elders for a remedy—but she never returned.

Luna and her mother searched from dawn until dusk, combing every alley and shoreline. At last, on the edge of the sea, they found only her sister’s shoes, half-buried in the sand. Since that day, every God Procession Day, Luna’s dreams had grown darker: she could hear the laughter of the statue, faint at first, then growing, until it filled her room with the sound of tiny, terrified cries.

This year marked the eighth anniversary of that disappearance. The villagers whispered that her sister had fallen into the sea, lost forever.

But Luna and her mother refused to accept it. They visited the temple often, kneeling before the Sea Goddess and begging for her sister to return.

One afternoon, on the way home, Luna’s gaze lingered on the courtyard where the temple stored its tower statues. Yan Bojie, the elderly craftsman who repaired and repainted them, explained quietly that each statue in Rong City’s procession was made with a specific purpose—each told a story, each carried a warning.

Luna stared at the statues, her breath catching. One of them… was different. The face, the posture… it was not the statue from her recurring nightmare. The familiar, haunting grin was gone, replaced by a blank stare that seemed almost alive. She could swear, for a heartbeat, that the statue’s tiny hands twitched.

And then, impossibly, after eight long years, her sister returned. But something was off. Her eyes were the same, yet darker, and her smile, too precise, too still, lingered too long. Luna’s heart raced. The nightmare she had woken from countless times—the child in the statue’s arms—suddenly felt very close, and very real.————

In August, amid the height of typhoon season, a powerful storm ravaged Starlight Harbor, lashing the city with torrential rain and howling winds, plunging entire districts into darkness and paralysis.

By the next day, the skies had cleared and power was restored. Television stations resumed broadcasting, yet the headlines were not about the storm—they screamed of a grisly murder that shocked the nation.

The crime had taken place in the semi-mountainous villa district on the outskirts of Starlight Harbor. The victims were the affluent Vivien.Zephyr and his family, along with the feng shui master Aiden. Five individuals, five distinct fates, each death more horrifying than the last. The scene was drenched in blood, a grotesque tableau of violence.

Police arrived swiftly, cordoning off the area and dispersing the press. The semi-mountain villas, secluded and serene yet poorly connected, often served as private clubs or holiday residences, seldom housing permanent residents. The prior night’s blackout had rendered the estate a veritable island, its emergency power only sufficient to keep the main security cameras operational. With surveillance limited, the investigation was inherently more complex. Officers divided into teams: one to process the crime scene, another to canvass residents, and a third to accompany security to the property management office.

“The cameras overwrite automatically after two weeks,” the property manager murmured while copying footage. “Mr. Vivien even replied to my message the day before yesterday.”

“What did he say?” Detective Aurora inquired.

The manager opened the owners’ chat group: “Here—this is it. I sent a reminder for residents to keep doors and windows closed, to stay indoors unless necessary. I reassured them that property and security were on duty and they could call if needed.”

Aurora noted the timestamps. “Send us screenshots for the record.”

Outside the office, the other teams returned with evidence bags and witness statements. Aurora approached reporters stationed at the estate entrance. “The investigation is ongoing; please refrain from excessive reporting.”

The journalists ignored her, thrusting microphones forward.

“Were the victims all Vivien.Zephyr?”“Yes.”“Any leads on the perpetrator?”“No comment.”“Who else was at the scene?”“No comment.”

Residents, fearful of bad luck, attempted to leave but were blocked by the press. Property staff and security had to escort them along side streets, clearing the main road. Among the departing vehicles were several luxury cars, some carrying celebrities.

“Is that model Fang Liying?”“Yes! Who’s that beside her?”“Get a shot—quick!”

Aurora urged Finn.Blake, “Let’s go. Get in the car.”

Inside, Aurora leafed through the statements. “Vivien.Zephyr, his wife Cyrus, his mistress Isabella, their son Vivien.Grayson… the entire Vivien household wiped out? Unbelievable.”

Finn.Blake countered, “Not entirely. There’s still Vivien.Aria.”“Vivien.Aria?”“You didn’t know?!” he exclaimed. “The scandalous affairs of Vivien.Zephyr were in every entertainment paper back then. His entanglement with Isabella made headlines for months, only resolved after he bought the newspaper.”

Aurora, mostly oblivious to celebrity news, admitted, “I only knew Isabella did some commercials before leaving the entertainment industry. That was years ago.”

“Yes, ages ago,” Finn.Blake sighed. “I was still in elementary school.”“Vivien.Aria is Vivien.Zephyr’s daughter?”“Indeed.”“Why haven’t I heard of her?”“Historical caution—she was kept hidden.”

Aurora, now a seasoned homicide detective with seven years on the force, had devoted herself entirely to her work. Social news she could recite by memory, but celebrity gossip barely registered.

At a red light, Finn.Blake cleared his throat. “Vivien.Zephyr and Cyrus were a high-society match, a grand wedding, citywide distribution of wedding pastries. Vivien.Aria was their daughter; the candy house on Ninth Street was a gift from her father.”“An entire candy house?”“Yes, and the brand, Liangshi.”

Aurora fingered a mint from her pocket, its wrapper depicting a twin-tailed girl with a lollipop. Liangshi, a longstanding Starlight Harbor candy brand, had become a beloved family destination.

Aurora pondered aloud, “I’ve never heard of Vivien.Aria.”“Isabella was flamboyant, Vivien.Grayson notorious—everyone knew him in Starlight Harbor,” Finn.Blake scoffed.

Aurora questioned Vivien.Aria upon her arrival at the station. Dressed in black, poised, and exuding subdued sorrow, she confirmed the identities of the victims and answered questions with calm precision.

She revealed she had lived alone in a city apartment while her family resided at the villa, and that Vivien.Grayson’s addiction, treated by Aiden, had kept her separate. Aurora confirmed the addiction and probed her whereabouts; Vivien.Aria remained composed, answering only the factual locations of work, home, and supermarket, never betraying the slightest agitation or guilt.

Her measured demeanor left Finn.Blake certain: “She is a good person.”

Aurora analyzed, “Her composure suggests awareness but not fabrication—neither defensive nor feigned, neither emotionally overwrought nor unnaturally restrained. She is poised, calculating, and controlled.”

Yet motive remained evident: after the massacre, she stood as the sole heir, and Aiden would no longer manipulate her father’s wealth.

That afternoon, the homicide team received a printed anonymous tip, containing only one line:“This Vivien.Aria is an impostor.”

The black stone monument gleamed with a noble, cold luster, yet bore no name…

Vivien Grayson’s room was in chaos. The wallpaper was torn, the mattress slashed, the wardrobe thrown askew—every corner had been meticulously searched.

The refrigerator held numerous bottles of yellow liquid.

It was obvious—they were meant to deceive Vivien Zephyr’s random urine tests, not his own. Where they came from, no one knew. The secretary frowned, lips pursed in disgust, slipped on a fresh pair of gloves, and gingerly picked up a bottle. Pretending to examine it, he muttered, “Mr. Vivien, it’s urine.”

Vivien Zephyr’s face flushed red and pale in turn. “Is this how you’ve been fooling me all year?”

“Search! Leave no corner unchecked!” Vivien Zephyr shouted, gasping for breath, dizzy, one hand gripping the desk, the other clutching the chair back as he slowly sank into his seat.

Isabella snatched a leather strap and lashed Vivien Grayson. “Why won’t you ever liste