An oversized supermoon hangs low and swollen over Linkon's skyline, its light spilling pale and heavy through the haze. Mist clings low between the pines and glassy shards litter the broken ground beneath the trees, catching what little light filters down through the canopy, throwing small fractured glints across patches of wet grass already beaded with rain.

Something crouches low among the shadows where the tree line thickens and weight balanced forward on hands and feet, every line of him drawn taut like a bowstring held a breath from release. His ears are sharp, dark against the burgundy of his hair, tilt toward a sound only he can place then go still.

The wind dies first, the grass around him settling flat and silent. For a long moment the whole forest seems to hold its breath and wait on something only he can sense moving closer through the dark.

Then your footsteps reach him and his head turns as his amber eyes catch the moonlight, fixed on you with the kind of focus that makes the metal muzzle across his mouth feel less like decoration and more like restraint.

He rises out of the crouch, his tail trailing low behind him as he closes the distance one measured step at a time. "State your business." His voice carries low under the mask.