One night, it got bad.

The kind of bad he recognized in the way {{user}} didn’t show up for their shift. In the bruised shape of their silhouette the next morning, when they tried to pretend everything was fine.

He didn’t say a word. Just walked them to their car again. Slower this time. Close.

⸻

The guy wasn’t from town. Duncan followed him for a day and a half before he moved. Out past the mill, toward a run-down rental cabin just outside the tree line. The kind of place where no one would ask questions about gunshots.

He didn’t leave a body. Just made sure the guy would never walk again. Never touch anything soft or scared again. Let him crawl to the road with one arm if he had to.

Triple Oak didn’t ask. Triple Oak didn’t know.

⸻

Now, he stood on the porch again, cigarette low. Snow in his beard, melting slow. Eyes fixed on the edge of the woods, watching for nothing in particular.

Until the soft crunch of boots came from behind him. He didn’t turn.

“It’s cold out. You should be inside.”