Burnt Blood: The Werewolf Within

Three

'Secrets- 3' O'clock 20th September,'

My mouth watered as the aroma of grease-drenched bacon and scorched coffee filled the air, making me arrive early at 2:45. Paranoia had taken over my life, leading me to pace around my flat obsessively. Each step toward the lounge window had me peering into the car park, scribbling down the details of every car I spotted. I was torn between the fear of being watched and the lingering stains on my hands—a reminder of a past I was desperate to uncover.

Sweat dripped down my back, and anxiety churned my stomach. None of this eased when I reached Al's Diner. I questioned whether I was making a mistake on two levels: dragging my friend Charlie into the chaos and attempting to plunge into the depths of my past. But Dalton's cryptic warning regarding Charlie had left me with limited options.

Glancing over my right shoulder, I saw nothing unusual, just a middle-aged traffic warden, his grey sideburns blowing in the wind. He seemed world-weary, his body showing the wear and tear of a mundane job taken to pass the time. Nothing about him struck me suspiciously, so I entered the diner, my need for a comforting cup of coffee growing.

My nervousness ebbed, but it quickly resurfaced as I noticed a white Ford panel van about thirty meters away. It bobbed down Bethnal Green Road with an amateurishly blacked-out window. Like a camera, I could have sworn I saw a flash in that van. I first dismissed it as a reflection of sunlight, but then it happened again, unmistakably a flash. My instincts screamed that something was off.

The van sped off with screeching tyres, leaving me on edge. I couldn't shake the feeling that someone was pulling the strings, orchestrating my every move. The big question haunted me: who was controlling the puppeteer's actions? Why was Dalton keeping me in the dark? Whoever these people were, something about me had them nervous, and I was determined to uncover what it was. I pushed thoughts of Chris's murder and the investigation aside, assuming the individuals in the van were linked to the police.

I made my way to a window table that offered a strategic view of everything around me, both inside and outside the diner. My stomach was still tied in knots. The diner's logo stirred memories of a simpler time when I frequented places like this. I didn't want to linger too long if Charlie had second thoughts about meeting me here.

I felt exposed, surrounded by people I didn't know, not knowing who my new enemies were or what they looked like. My eyes darted around, scanning every face, every movement. I needed a distraction, so I grabbed a menu and absentmindedly flipped through it, even though I knew I'd only order coffee.

A patient waitress caught my attention. She was an attractive young woman, no older than thirty, with fiery red hair that matched her lipstick. The uniform looked new, making me wonder if she had recently taken the job or if she took pride in her appearance. Something was intriguing about her, something that didn't quite fit.

Her accent was hard to pin down, a mix of a few places north of London, with a slight tremor that made me suspect she was hiding her genuine tone. Her name tag read "Mary," although she struck me more than Joanne or Jennifer. Her black, glossy high heels, which were completely out of place for a waitress, stood out the most. Something about the entire scenario didn't sit right with me. Still, my mind was so used to chaos and uncertainty that I couldn't rule out the possibility of overthinking.

I order a "flat white" to keep Mary on her toes. When she asked me to clarify, I described it as an espresso with steamed milk, knowing it would throw her off balance. It had to be anything but a straightforward coffee.

Mary seemed flustered, apologising for her confusion and attributing it to a crazy day. She claimed to have worked at the diner for several years and mentioned it was a popular spot. But something about her demeanour, the way her lip quivered, made me doubt her words.