The snow holds her story in dented footprints—uneven, staggering, desperate.
I move faster now, following her trail with practiced efficiency. The rational part of my brain questions why I'm even doing this. Why I didn't just let her go.
One less complication in my carefully controlled existence. One less unknown variable that could bring unwanted attention to Iron Hollow.
But I know why.
The terror in her eyes wasn't random. It was targeted. Specific. She looked at me like she'd seen ghosts before and wasn't afraid of another one. Like she knew exactly what kind of monster she was running from.
I know that look because I've worn it.
Three minutes deeper into the woods, I spot the scuffed slope where the ground drops away suddenly.
The snow is crushed and displaced where she fell, a chaotic trail leading down to the ravine below. And then I see something that makes my blood run cold.
Boot prints. And they don't belong to either of us.
Combat tread. Heavy. Methodical. Tactical.
My instincts flare like a tripwire's been triggered.
This isn't just some scared woman running from thugs. She's running from a trained asset. And whoever's tracking her knows how to cover ground—and how to kill without being seen.
I drop into a crouch, senses heightening as my body remembers what my mind would rather forget.
I pull the rifle on my back, checking the chamber with practiced hands. I didn't come out here expecting a firefight, but five years of living as a ghost has taught me never to assume safety.
The forest is too quiet.
The natural symphony of nighttime creatures has gone silent—a warning sign more reliable than any security system.
Something dangerous has disturbed the balance.
I slip down the ridge, rifle raised, staying low.
My breathing slows, controlled and measured. My heartbeat steadies into the familiar combat rhythm, time stretching and contracting around me as adrenaline sharpens every sense.
Then I hear it.
The softclickof a rifle safety disengaging.
Shit.
I drop flat just as the shot cracks through the trees—too close, too sharp.
But it was not meant for me.
I roll behind a fallen log, scanning the darkness. The muzzle flash gives away the sniper's position—northeast, elevated, maybe 200 yards out.
Then I see her, the woman from my cabin.
She's crouched and frozen at the bottom of the ravine, a red laser sight still trained on her chest. Her dark hair is wild around her face, her clothes soaked, her breathing visible in quick white puffs of condensation.
She doesn't scream.
She doesn't flinch.
She doesn't run.
