//If you live 'round 'ere/ You need cash in the bank/ 'Cause the houses 'round 'ere/ Are all flashy and swank/ And the front bit/ Ha!/ That's what's called a façade/ Everyday/ People in their own sweet way/ Like to add a coat of paint/ And be what they ain't/ And so their little game is played/ Livin' out their masquerade/ Gettin' rich and gettin' paid/ Who'd want to trade?//

-Façade, Jekyll and Hyde: The Musical

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"Are you sure?" Bulstrode asked, looking over the file that Marion Carew had thrown on his desk. It was a chilly Winter's day; the dark had already swallowed the mild sun by six, and the slight glow of stars was starting to puncture the inky blackness of the sky. Bulstrode had been sitting at his desk when the Secretary came through the door, face twisted into a frown.

"No, I cancelled two of my meetings to have a nice chat", Marion replied with stinging sarcasm. "Of course I'm sure". Bulstrode looked down at the file again just to check that his eyes weren't deceiving him. They weren't. There, hidden among the variously printed papers was a picture of a young man. He was around twenty years of age, with dark hair, piercing grey eyes and a heavily chiselled jawline. The photo was pixelated, probably taken by some terrified local, and he wasn't exactly smiling. His teeth were bared, and his canines were pointed until they were needle-sharp. Underneath the photo was a name: Joseph Lykaios, a kill count: 7, and a classification: Werewolf.

"So what exactly do you want me to do about it?" Bulstrode asked, hands flat on the desk. "Most of our agents are still out in the field. It seems Lord Trash's dispersal has caused a certain... excitement among the supernatural".

"This creature has made it through our borders, he's killed seven of the most distinguished people in London. I don't care if you have to rip down houses to find him, I want him dead. By tomorrow". Bulstrode face didn't change, but his mind was screaming. There was no way this was possible. Especially without any of his agents in the country.

"Sir, do you really expect me to do this? Track and kill a werewolf" Bulstrode replied, trying to stay straight-faced. "It's... impossible, within that timeframe".

After a moment's thinking, Marion looked straight into Bulstrode's eyes with furious certainty. "Yes. I do expect this of you. This is your organisation, that I am paying for, so I should be".

"But our agents..." Bulstrode started, then trailed off. He was fighting a losing battle.

"By tomorrow, Bulstrode. Come on man, surely the security of London is more important than your stubbornness". Bulstrode just looked straight at him, face twisted into frustration, and reluctantly nodded. "Shall we say by six tomorrow?" Marion asked, though it was rhetoric, before walking out of the office.
Sighing, Bulstrode went over to the cabinet, pulling out of it a gun and several silver bullets. He rolled the barrel and clicked the magazine into place.

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Dull yellow light shone down on the pavements, casting quivering shadows around Bulstrode as he walked down the street. It was eerily quiet for only seven o'clock. Usually the city was still packed with late pub-goers and shoppers. Looking around him, the MIO agent felt rather isolated without his agents, his only company being a dying oil lantern he held in front of him. He decided momentarily just to focus on the task on hand, but, almost immediately, he was taken away from it. He had seen something. Something hiding among the shadows. He felt watched. Shaking off the thought, he passed it off as some minor animal escaping through the alleyway, but he was sure he could hear something... growling. He looked down, trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness, but... what was that? Were his eyes deceiving him? He looked again. No, there it was. All across the pavement, making a trail, like footprints, were drops of scarlet blood. Lifting the gun in front of him, he pointed it into the place he thought he had seen a creature.

"Come out", he shouted, finger closed around the trigger. "Freak". He was just met by laughter, and the shadows moved to reveal not a creature, a beast. It was at least three metres tall, towering over the agent, with thick grey fur, matted with blood. Black-stained claws protruded from where his fingers should have been, and from his salivating mouth were fangs, needle-sharp. Bulstrode could only imagine what damage they could do. Two dark eyes, ringed with crimson and gold, glared at him with flaming fury.

"You call me a freak?" it bellowed at him in a low growl. "When you are the one hunting my kind".

"I have to", Bulstrode answered bluntly, and aimed at it. "Mr. Lykaios".

"Roger Bulstrode", it chuckled. "Sir Roger Bulstrode. You'd look good on my hit list. Bet your agents wouldn't even miss you". The wolf narrowed its eyes, as if it was analysing the agent from head to toe. "You're scared of me, aren't you?" the werewolf asked, not fazed by the visible glow of silver that glinted out of the barrel. "The fear", it whispered and sniffed the air. "You stink of it. They all did too". It moved its great paw, to the sight of broken bones littered across the pavement, and stacked into messy piles. The shock was enough for Bulstrode to pull the trigger, a tiny glint of moonlight reflecting off the bullet as it flew across the alley. The werewolf moved its head, so the silver just chipped its shoulder, leaving a streaky burnmark next to its collarbone. It looked towards it, with a look that could almost evoke sympathy, but it soon changed to deadly anger. It let our a roar, an elongated roar that rattled even the most unmoved of stones in the alleyway. The bullet shattered on the wall behind it, breaking into shards on the floor. Its hair stood up on end in black-red spikes, and its eyes seemed like they could kill a man on their own.

"Are you so scary... little man?" it roared in a mocking tone. It approached him, claws fully extended and pointed like daggers. Bulstrode breathed, heart beating a miles per hour. He had witnessed many things, rogue Hydes, escaped demons and monsters, but this here, it seemed unreal. Looming in front of him, it was like a nightmare. He clicked the barrel again to reload another bullet, and aimed again. This time at the beast's chest. Perhaps if he pierced its heart it would be enough to kill. The beast flung an enormous paw his way, and Bulstrode only had moments to leap back.
Aiming again, he closed his finger around the trigger. The creature's eyes widened, knowing what was about to happen, and it started to retreat, holding its paws up. Then, Bulstrode fired...