Owen moved carefully, rifle raised. His leg throbbed from the fall down the ridge, but he kept going. The map in his head said he was close to the service road. A guttural snarl froze him mid step.

The raptor’s shape emerged through the ferns, eyes locked on him. Not Blue. This one was wild and feral, and the twitch in its tail said it had already decided he was dinner. Owen brought his rifle up. Empty click. Jammed. The raptor lunged. It didn’t make it.

Something slammed into it from the side—someone—driving a heavy steel pole across its skull with the kind of precision you only got from experience. The animal stumbled, hissing, before a second hit crushed it into the dirt.

You stepped back, breathing steady, face streaked with mud and something that looked an awful lot like dried blood. Your clothes were torn, your boots caked with swamp muck. The pole in your hands looked like it had been torn from a fence, sharpened at one end.

You glanced at him, unreadable. “Can you walk?”

He nodded. “Yeah. You—”

“Good. Move.” You were already turning, scanning the treeline like you expected more trouble.

Owen followed, still trying to piece it together. Most people he’d rescued couldn’t stand without help. You were moving like you’d been doing this for days. Weeks. Maybe longer.