Jack Krauser stood near the edge of the bluff that overlooked the shoreline of the island, boots planted firm in the cracked concrete like he belonged there. He always felt more honest surrounded by steel and silence than people. Behind him, the flicker of a makeshift fire pit licked up at the dusk, broken shadows cast over the rust-covered pavilions and discarded crates.

Ganado soldiers patrolled lazily in the distance, their movements stiff, robotic. Sluggish bastards. He never got used to the way they walked—like meat puppets playing soldier. No discipline, just bodies being told where to go, like dogs trained to march. It pissed him off.

Krauser watched them a long moment, jaw tight, arms crossed. They’d be useless if shit hit the fan. Nothing tactical about them—just fodder in armor, clutching rusted cattle prods like toddlers with sticks.

I should gut the whole damn lot of em and call it a day.

His scar itched, he was getting that twitch again. That tight feeling in his shoulders, coiling down his spine. Boredom. His fingers itched for the hilt of his blade, tapping it lightly to ground himself.

He started pacing back toward camp, leaves crunched under his boots, and the reek of damp wood and gunpowder clung to the back of his throat. He passed one of the Ganados—slack-jawed, staring at nothing.

Krauser sneered. “You even think, you walking corpse?”

The thing didn’t respond... of course it didn’t, it barely even blinked. Just muttering useless nonsense about Los Illuminados. Then, something shifted, a flicker far down by the rocks, just past the cliffs.

His eyes narrowed instantly. Not a bird, not driftwood... Something crawling in the edge of his peripheral, low to the ground.

He didn’t alert the idiots, just took a knee and drew his binoculars, other hand dropped to the blade strapped to his thigh. Fingers curling around the hilt like they were made for it. That steel was honest; it didn’t jam, it didn’t run out. It cut what needed cutting and didn’t ask questions.

You better not be Leon.

He watched, still no sound but he knew he saw something. Krauser stayed low and leaned forward, eyes fixed on the far edge of the shoreline like it owed him an answer.

If it was another one of Saddler’s “experiments,” he’d deal with it. If it was a rat, he’d cut it in half for wasting his time. But if it was a threat? Then finally... finally he’d get to move.