Bigby woke with a start.

The world around him was still drenched in that peculiar grey of half-sleep, a foggy borderland between dreaming and waking. But it didn't last long. Centuries of predatory instinct, sharpened across lifetimes, sliced through the haze. His alarm clock screamed beside him—less an alert and more a punishment.

Always with the screaming, Bigby thought, before silencing it with a backhand that cracked its plastic casing even further. The red digits blinked defiantly back at him. It was the same cracked clock, same mattress with the same goddamn broken spring jabbing into his ribs. Sheriff of Fabletown or not, nothing changed in this place.

Rain pattered steadily against the thin windowpanes. The kind of New York morning that soaked into your bones. Bigby stared at the water stains blooming across the ceiling plaster, letting the sound drown him for a moment before rising. His apartment—the smallest in the Woodlands—was barely big enough to stretch in, let alone live. He'd once joked that Snow's bathroom had more square footage, but it wasn't really a joke.

He dragged himself out of bed and pulled aside the crooked blinds. Outside, the city sulked beneath low, bruised clouds. Another beautiful day in the Kingdom of Broken Promises. Bigby scrubbed his hand down his scruffy face, sighing. A sigh that seemed to come from somewhere older than his body.

The morning air was thick with the pungent collage of the Mundy world—hot dog carts, wet pavement, cheap cologne, desperation. Bigby inhaled deeply through his nose, sorting it all out: traffic oil, burnt coffee, a cheating spouse three buildings over, someone's nervous sweat.

Inside the lobby, a slow trickle of both Fables and Mundys went about their morning business. Glamours blurred the lines. A wolf in man's skin might be standing next to a dwarf in a delivery uniform. The magic cast by the witches of the 13th Floor kept most of the Mundys from noticing anything unusual. As long as the budget held up.

But this morning, something was off. The moment he stepped inside, Bigby felt it. Tension, subtle but sharp, like the moment right before thunder. Then he saw her.

Snow White, already waiting, her arms tightly folded, her expression taut.

“Sheriff Wolf,” she greeted him with formality that made his hackles rise.

That wasn't how Snow usually started a conversation—unless it was bad.

“Ms. White.” Bigby kept it civil.

“Come with me.” She didn't wait for a reply, just turned and headed for the courtyard.

He followed, and caught it immediately—the coppery, unmistakable scent of blood. Fresh.

Two steps into the courtyard and it hit him full force. Blood soaked the front steps. A lot of it.

Bigby tensed, instinct taking the reins as he moved swiftly to shut and lock the gate. His eyes scanned the street. Still early, but foot traffic would increase soon. A mess like this couldn't be handwaved by glamours alone. Not without drawing attention.

Bigby crouched low, unfastening his coat. The bundle beneath was a severed head. A woman's. Fable. Eyes still open, mouth frozen mid-scream.

“Fuck,” he growled, cigarette clenched between his teeth.

He didn't recognize her beyond the vaguest sense that she was one of theirs. First murder in Fabletown in decades...

“I'll take it to Swineheart,” he muttered, already turning to head back inside.

Snow stopped him with a hand to his chest. It was the closest thing to intimate she'd allowed in months.

“He's out of the country. But his apprentice—she's available. She's downstairs with Bufkin now, trying to ID the victim using the Books.”

Snow's composure was tight, her features drawn with responsibility. “I'll have to ask Bluebeard for another... donation,” she said bitterly. “I thought when I took this office I could fix things. But the budget's tighter than ever. Every decision's a no-win.”

“Find who did this,” she added, her eyes on the bloody bundle. “Quietly.”

Bigby rewrapped the head and stalked to the elevator, punching the basement button harder than he needed to. As the lift descended, he rubbed his temple.

They all look at me like I'm just pretending. Like I'm gonna snap one day and eat 'em all up. Centuries of redemption, and I'm still the fucking monster under their beds.

The Business Office was deceptively named—like calling a war room a study or a prison a retreat. Behind its modest wooden door tucked in the basement hallway of the Woodlands, the space opened into something far too vast to exist within the confines of Manhattan real estate, enchanted to be larger on the inside.

It smelled of ancient paper, candle wax, ink, and the faint ever-present hum of magic. The air always felt just a few degrees cooler than the rest of the building, heavy with the weight of history and bureaucracy. Stacks of paperwork, files, and enchanted ledgers teetered precariously on desks older than some of the Fables who used them.

Dominating the center of the room was the Magic Mirror, nestled in its wrought-iron frame like some sullen oracle. Its surface rippled with ethereal energy even when dormant. To one side sat the massive, carved desk that had once belonged to Ichabod Crane—now repurposed for Snow White's use. A locked gate in the far corner led down to the Witching Well—a cold, dark shaft used for the disposal of enchanted objects or the execution of justice.

And then there was Bufkin, the ever-disheveled flying monkey, usually perched on a stack of books with a half-finished bottle of wine nearby.

A scent drifted toward him. Soft, warm, subtle. Something ancient stirred in him. His cigarette dropped from his mouth. He didn't even notice.

Home? No. Not quite. Something older than that.

He moved toward the source.

Bufkin looked up from his precarious perch on a stack of tomes. “Sheriff! You know there's no smoking in here.”

Bigby gave a faint smirk, retrieving the cigarette from the floor. “Heightened senses, Bufkin. The smoke helps keep 'em manageable. Least it's just smoke and not houses.”

Then Bigby saw her.

He studied her. A new face in the old world. But the scent—faint but impossible to ignore—felt etched into his bones. He approached slowly, careful not to spook her.

He held out a hand.

“You must be the new doctor. Snow mentioned you. Don't worry—I don't bite. Not anymore, anyway.”

A soft grin tugged at the corner of Bigby's lips. She hesitated. Understandable. He wasn't exactly the cuddly type.

Bigby tilted his head, sniffing subtly. There it is again... that scent. Like forest smoke and fairy fire... And cinnamon?

“This might sound strange, but...” he trailed off, golden flicker in his eyes. “Have we met before?”

A quiet beat passed.

“Where did you say you were from?” His voice dipped, no longer entirely human. There was a growl underneath, the Wolf in his throat.