"Your turn, Baby Shark," Elijah snorted, tone slick with challenge, the kind of smirk that was always half-daring, half-daring-you-to-hit-back. He didn't even bother masking the disdain—just flicked the nickname like a dagger across the table, right at Rafael.
Rafael didn't flinch. Just raised two fingers in a casual, fluent flip-off—so natural it might as well have been a greeting. But the bite in his posture vanished the moment his gaze shifted. Slid right to Thalia like gravity itself had chosen her.
"Rafael Vilar," he said, smooth now, leaning back with practiced nonchalance. "Rafe, if you're lucky."
Thalia tilted her head. Just a fraction. Interested.
"I'm 26, from Campos do Jordão, São Paulo, Brazil," he continued, the rhythm of his voice subtly shifting—warmer now. "Head baker at my family's bakery. Work with my mom, my uncle, my aunt… my grandma."
Silence.
Total, stunned silence.
It hit the table like a power outage.
For a full second, not a single person moved. Even the air paused. Because that was not what anyone had expected from the sharp-tongued, short-fused Shark.
Not the ones who'd already picked him as a threat. Not the ones who'd written him off as a hothead. Certainly not the Wolf, who filed the new data point away without blinking.
Thalia, however, lit up like a midsummer lantern.
"That's so lovely, Baby Shark," she gushed, her voice the perfect mix of charmed and disarmed. "I love sweets! I can't believe you bake. What's your favorite dessert to make?"
Rafael blinked—almost shyly. Then leaned forward. He was basking now, warmed by her gaze like it was sunlight made personal.
"Pies," he said. "Hands down. Crust, filling, topping—I learned from my grandma when I was a kid. I'm still trying to outdo her." A half-smile flickered across his lips. "My cakes sell more, but pies are my favorite."
Thalia clapped her hands together like she couldn't help it. "Pies are a _nightmare_ to make," she groaned playfully. "I mess them up every time. But I love a good one. What's your favorite, Baby Shark?"
"Lemon pie, no contest," Rafael replied, his grin widening. "I probably bake it the most too—'cause I eat it the most." He tipped his head slightly, soft dark curls bouncing. "What about you, Aphrodite? What's your favorite to eat?"
"Strawberry," she said immediately, no hesitation. "Anything with strawberry."
"I make a strawberry-lemon pie that'll *ruin* every other pie for you," he said, his voice low, teasing. "My baby brother's obsessed with it. My sister's all about the pumpkin pecan, though—can't stand sour stuff."
Thalia leaned in slightly. Her tone softened. "You've got baby siblings?"
He nodded. "Two little brothers. One baby sister. The youngest hates pies, though—cold dessert kid. Loves my tiramisu."
"You can bake tiramisu?" Alessandro gasped, scandalized like someone had committed blasphemy in front of him, the Italian.
Rafael's warmth vanished like a switch had been flipped.
"I'm a baker," he snapped. "Of course I can."
The chill in his tone was unmistakable. Sharp-edged. Dismissive. The tension crackled—a subtle lightning bolt across the table.
That was the tell. The line in the sand.
There was heat for Thalia. Frost for everyone else. And Elijah and Alessandro, clearly, were everyone else.
"I don't know a thing about baking," Anastasia muttered, almost sheepish.
"Okay," Thalia interjected, voice soothing as velvet, expertly steering the group away from the brewing tension. "Should we circle back to introductions?"
She turned to the others—the sixteen still sitting like deer in headlights, transfixed by the sudden domestic fantasy laid out in front of them. Family. Pie. Baby siblings. It was disarmingly wholesome.
Her smile, however, was anything but naive. It was gentle. Sweet. Devastating.
It landed like a silent command.
Half the table blushed. The other half forgot how to breathe.
"We've just been sharing names, ages, where we're from, and what we do," she said, her voice a song of sugar and soft sunlight. "I think it'll help. Even if we're in different teams now, that doesn't mean we should stay boxed in, right? Who knows how the next stages will go? So, do you want to join us?"
A beat. And then:
"Yes," came the chorus. Muted, reverent.
Thalia licked her lips, tilted her head just so, and smiled again—brighter, deeper, knowing.
She had them.
Every last one.
And as the remaining contestants began taking their turns—truth or lie, embellished or vulnerable—the Wolf remained silent. Watching. Measuring.
Every blink. Every shift in tone. Every glance that lingered too long, every anecdote too perfect to be unpolished.
Profiling. Quietly. Rigorously. Without mercy.
They already knew most of them were lying. The tone gave them away. The bodies gave them away. The eyes—
But that didn't matter.
Truth wasn't necessary. The Wolf didn't need the truth.
They just needed the patterns. The tells. The inconsistencies.
They could work with lies. Lies had shape. Lies had weight.
And in the end, it didn't matter who said what.
Because by the time they were done, the Wolf would know what _each one_ of them were.
And how best to use it.
Ren had told the truth about his name and job—but the Wolf could smell the misdirection anyway. The real motivation was tucked out of sight. His age? Definitely older than he looked. East Asians had that ageless quality—he could be pushing 40 and still pass for a teenage heartthrob. And Osaka? Please. That was a Kyoto accent, soft and rounded, dressed in a borrowed city.
Anastasia followed. A lie wrapped in lace. The name? Staged. The age? Off. Somewhere between 22 and 28, playing the ambiguity game. But the ballerina part? Real. Her spine, her posture, her hands—they still spoke ballet, even if she didn't. She was from Moscow, though. That, the Wolf believed.
Then came Camden. Entirely fabricated. Fake name, fake age—he was closer to the Wolf's true age, definitely not 26. Said he worked in tech, which was almost true. He wasn't a corporate type. He was a digital gremlin, a hacker raised in wires and shadows. His city? That checked out. The rest was a smoke screen.
Each of them was competent. Useful. But none came close to the Wolf.
Mateo claimed 31. That was cute. The Wolf pegged him at 39, maybe 40, aging behind an easy smile. The name was a stand-in. His job? Possibly true. Possibly not. But the dumb act was a clear mask—he was smart, trying to blend in. It worked on the others. Not on the Wolf.
Then came the four trying a little too hard to impress Thalia.
Alessandro. First name? Real. Last name? Fabricated. Claimed to be 22, and that was true enough. He was 22. Copywriting was a ruse, though. The dream of becoming a writer was real, but it wasn't a career path—it was a fantasy, an escape hatch. And as for Florence? No. The accent kept tripping into Sicilian roots. A slip no one else caught. He had the air of a person born in old money wealth, could be a fallen heir, that is, if he's here for the money at all.
Samira. Alias. Her eyes betrayed her age—older than 20, maybe 24, possibly 25. Not from Cairo—too polished, too coastal. Alexandria, most likely. The job was a lie, but well-crafted. She probably was an engineer already, which made faking a beginner's charm that much easier.
Rafael. Name was real. Age? Just shy of the truth. Claimed 26, probably 24. The baking? That was truth, but more passion than profession. Clever choice. He leaned into what he was good at. And he was good. He lit up when he talked about it. That wasn't fake. But São Paulo? No. The rhythm of his Brazilian Portuguese was pure Rio de Janeiro—fast, musical, warm.
And then—Elijah.
He had the Wolf's attention from the beginning. Towering, easily 6'9. Broad-shouldered. That carved physique, that practiced charisma. Australian, yes—but not Tasmanian. No way. That was a Sydney accent softened with intent. Lifesaver? Believable, sure. But not to the Wolf, who recognized the scent of a manufactured lie. 22? Not even close. Late twenties at least. The snake charming thing? Real. But more skill than job. And the way he moved, spoke—he had the cadence of someone who came from money, once.
A Sydney boy pretending to be Tasmanian. A fallen elite.
He was the real threat. The only one with intelligence that mirrored the Wolf's own. Academic. Calculated. Dangerous.
And yet, to Snakebite's misfortune, he'd already stepped into the spider's web.
The Wolf could see it in his eyes. The curiosity. The flickers of calculation. He wasn't pulling away. He was leaning in.
That made him far more valuable as an ally than an enemy.