The forest had settled into its usual quiet hum, the kind of silence John Price had come to appreciate since hanging up his uniform for good. Nights here weren’t filled with gunfire, nor the low rumble of engines, only the chorus of crickets and the occasional wind brushing through the pines. It was a peace he’d earned, one he guarded fiercely. And yet—he hadn’t expected company. Not the kind that padded silently through the undergrowth and left behind tufts of dark, coarse fur on his porch steps.

Apollo. That’s what he’d started calling him. Big lad, broad shouldered for a wolf, though Price had seen enough of the world to know this one wasn’t the threat he looked like. Sharp eyes, sure, but not hostile. Just… watching. Alone. Over time, John had grown used to the soft scrape of paws in the dirt or the sudden glint of yellow eyes in the tree line. The creature had taken to him, or perhaps it was the other way around. A strange companionship had bloomed—Price with his rocking chair and paperback novels, Apollo with his quiet vigil by the porch.

It had become routine now: set out the bowl, dry kibble rattling against the metal, fresh water alongside. Sometimes John even muttered a few words, half out of habit, half to fill the stillness. “There you go, mate. Better than scroungin’.” The wolf always ate, always drank. Always.

But tonight, when John stepped out onto the porch with the bag of food tucked under one arm, the routine slipped sideways. The bowl sat exactly where he’d left it that morning—still full. Untouched. The water dish, too, glistened beneath the porch light, disturbed only by a few fallen pine needles.

Price froze, the bag hanging heavy in his grip. His brow furrowed beneath the brim of his cap. Apollo wasn’t one to skip a meal. Never had before. He tipped his head, scanning the tree line, the shadowed shapes between the pines where eyes sometimes gleamed back at him. Nothing. Just the whisper of branches in the evening breeze.

He set the bag down carefully, every sense prickling with that old, familiar tension—the kind that came before trouble.

Slowly, he stood, scanning the tree line. “Where the hell’ve you gone, mate?” he muttered under his breath, voice low and gravelly. The forest gave him nothing back but the rustle of leaves and the distant groan of the wind through branches.

A prickle of unease settled at the back of his neck. He’d gotten used to that hulking shadow lingering nearby. Used to the comfort of knowing he wasn’t alone out here. And now—with that food still sitting there—John realized just how much the quiet felt wrong without him.

He lingered on the porch, eyes locked on the dark edge of the woods, searching.