I Rejected My Obsessive Werebeast novel Chapter 47

Chapter 47

Aurora’s POV

Connor took half a step forward.

His grip on the file folder tightened. His eyes were on my face – wide, disbelieving, something flickering behind them that I hadn’t seen in a long time.

“Aurora. How did you –” His voice cracked on the second syllable. He swallowed. “Did you come here… for me?”

I stepped back half a step, putting a little more distance between us.

“No.” My voice was steady. “I’m not here for you. It’s just a coincidence.”

His expression changed. His gaze fell, and he was quiet for a moment. He opened his mouth, hesitated, then finally said:

“I know I was wrong.” His voice was lower now. Rough. “I was stupid before. If you could just — if you could forgive me —”

–

“No.” I didn’t wait for him to finish. The word came out clean. Final.

The corridor was quiet for two seconds. The strip of window light hadn’t moved. It still cut across the floor between us like a line drawn in chalk.

Connor’s fingers loosened on the file folder. Then tightened again.

He looked down. “You never come to places like this.” His voice was flat. “So tell me. Why are you here?”

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I looked at him. “What about you?” I asked. “Why are you here?”

This

is jaw tightened. He shifted his weight. “The Matching Center sent me.‘

He didn’t explain further. He just stood there with the file folder in his hand.

“I work here now,” he added.

I let that sit for a moment. The fighting pit. The beastmen in cages. The smell of rust and sweat that seeped through the half–open door behind him.

“Can you take me inside?” I said.

His brow furrowed. “It’s dangerous in there. You don’t know the people. You don’t know the layout.”

I didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just looked at him.

He held my gaze for a few seconds, then seemed to realize I wasn’t going to ask again.

He switched the file folder to his other hand and tipped his head toward the door.

“This way. Stay close. Don’t wander.”

–

He walked to the entrance. Said something low to the man stationed by the door – words I couldn’t catch. The man glanced at me. Once. Hard. Then stepped aside.

I followed Connor inside. Half a meter behind.

The corridor beyond was narrower than the one outside. The walls were raw concrete – scratched, patched, the kind of repairs that didn’t bother

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matching the colour. The lights were dimmer too. Yellow bulbs caged in wire, casting pools of weak light that didn’t reach the corners.

We walked in silence.

After a while I spoke. “Do you know who does image work in this place?”

Connor’s pace faltered. He glanced over his shoulder at me. “Why do you want to know?”

“Just answer.”

He looked at me for two seconds. Then turned back and kept walking. “I know. But he doesn’t see strangers easily.”

“Then I need to see him.”

Connor hesitated, his jaw tightening slightly. But he didn’t let it go.

He took a left turn. Walked down another stretch of corridor. Stopped in front of a door with a faded number plate – the paint almost gone, the screws rusted.

He knocked. Twice. Then the latch clicked. The door opened a few inches. A man’s face appeared in the gap – middle–aged, sharp–featured. eyes that moved fast. They landed on Connor first. Then slid to me. The look wasn’t friendly.

Connor spoke first. “She’s with me. She has a question for you.”

The man’s eyes stayed on me. Measuring. After a long moment he opened the door wider. I stepped inside.

The room was small. A desk. A chair. A shelf of hard drives and folders against the wall. The light was a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.

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The man sat down. Didn’t offer me a seat.

stood in front of the desk.

“I’m looking for the original source material for a composite photo,” I said. “Made about eight days ago. A woman came in with my public photos and had a forest scene composited onto my face.”

His expression didn’t change. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.

I pulled out my phone. Opened the surveillance screenshot Nathan had sent. Turned the screen toward him.

“This woman. She came to your shop. Paid cash. No name – but your front desk remembers her build. Thin. About 165. Lower–district accent.”

His eyes flicked to the screen. Then back to my face. Then away.

“I don’t take walk-ins.” he said.

“You take cash.”

He leaned back in the chair. His fingers tapped the armrest. Once. Twice.

“What do you want?”

“The original file. The unedited composite. The work order if you have one.”

“And why would I give you that?”

“Because I’ll pay for it.”

His eyes narrowed. He looked at me for a long moment. Then his gaze slid to Connor, who was standing by the door, silent.

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Something passed between them. I didn’t know what.

Then the man opened a drawer. Pulled out a plastic folder. Flipped through it. Stopped. Pulled out a few sheets and slid them across the desk.

I looked down.

–

The originals. The light, the angle, the resolution – all matched. The background that had been cropped and pasted under my face was right there, clean and unedited. I turned one sheet over. Checked the edges. The print quality.

It was all there.

I picked up the photos. Held them in my hand.

“Thank you.” I said.

I reached into my bag. Pulled out a card. Set it on the desk.

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