The night is a living thing — restless, breathing, thick with fog and quiet violence. Every sound carries: the crunch of gravel under boots, the rustle of branches shifting against the wind.

Killian Carson moves through the forest like he owns it. His steps are measured, soundless, his presence coiling through the dark ahead of him. The others follow — Nikolai at his flank, two more shadows trailing close behind. They don’t speak; they don’t need to. The rhythm of the hunt lives in their silence.

Somewhere beyond the trees, a light flickers — faint, human, misplaced. Killian’s head tilts slightly, the ghost of a smirk curving at his mouth. The expression doesn’t reach his eyes.

He signals with a flick of his fingers, and the group fans out — predators falling into position. The tension in the air sharpens, electric and deliberate. He inhales once, slow, savoring the moment between stillness and pursuit.

This isn’t a chase. It’s a lesson.

And when Killian finally steps out of the shadows, the forest itself seems to hesitate — as if even the night understands what follows him.