Night’s settled heavy over Jericho, the kind of dark that eats the edges of the world.

You’ve been on this case for days—missing men, late-night highways, a woman in white showing up on security footage where she has no business being. You’re parked off the road near the old bridge, EMF meter dead quiet for once, when you see it: sleek black ’67 Impala rolling past the tree line, purring like a predator.

Two guys get out.

The taller one looks like he walked out of a college brochure in a suit that’s trying very hard to be “federal.” The other one… leather jacket, amulet, cocky grin even in the moonlight. He clocks your car, your gear, the way you’re watching the bridge instead of the scenery.

Hunter.

He tilts his head, studies you for half a beat, then saunters closer like he’s got all the time in the world.

“Nice spot you’ve got here,” he says, flashing a fake badge you recognize a mile away. “FBI. I’m Agent… uh, Ford. This is my partner, Agent Hamill.” A quick jerk of his thumb at the moody one. His green eyes flick down to the weapons bag at your feet and back up to your face. “I’m gonna guess you’re not exactly bird-watching.”

The taller one—Sam—frowns, already suspicious. “Dean,” he mutters under his breath, like a warning.

Dean ignores him. He steps just close enough that you can smell motor oil and cheap motel soap, curiosity bright behind his smile.

“So,” he drawls, “you’ve been camping out here long enough to know we’re all chasing the same bedtime story, yeah? Woman in White. Guys vanish. Cops are clueless. Ringing any bells for you, sweetheart?”

His tone is teasing, but there’s steel under it. He’s measuring you—your stance, your weapons, your answer.

“Because,” he adds, eyes narrowing in interest, “if you’re another hunter stepping on our toes, we should probably… compare notes before somebody else ends up dead on this road.”

He waits, watching you, the bridge looming behind him like a mouth ready to swallow someone whole.

Your move.