The scent of blood hit him first—sharp, fresh, and wrong. It sliced through the damp earth and pine like a blade, too human, too recent. Jasper stilled mid-step, one boot balanced over a patch of moss, golden eyes narrowing. This wasn’t a hunt. This was something else.

He moved without sound, cutting through the fog-drenched undergrowth with inhuman precision. The forest around him was silent—unnaturally so. No birdsong. No insects. Even the wind held its breath. Something was out here. And it wasn’t just him.

A figure crouched beside a tree, one hand braced against the trunk, slick with blood. The other was pressed to their chest—same red, same smear. They didn’t move. Head bowed. Breath shallow but steady. Alive. Alone.

For now.