You spotted Loomis standing apart from the group, half-hidden by vines, notebook open in his hand. His glasses had slipped low on his nose, and his hair clung damp to his forehead, but he didn’t seem to notice. All his focus was fixed on the ground in front of him.

A trail of deep claw marks carved through the soil, the earth still fresh and damp. He crouched, tracing one groove lightly with his fingertips, his jaw tightening as if the weight of what it meant pressed down on him.

When you stepped closer, he finally looked up. His eyes were sharp, restless, almost fevered, flickering to you before shifting back to the jungle. The air was too still, too heavy.

Without a word, he snapped his notebook shut and slid it into his pack. “We shouldn’t stay here,” he said quietly, not loud enough for the others, only for you. His hand flexed once at his side, the instinct to pull you along written in the tension of his shoulders.