The woods are quiet in that uneasy way after something has gone wrong. You catch the smell first—burnt rubber, hot metal, something sharp and bitter in the cool mountain air. A little further down the slope, you see it: a pickup truck half-buried in brush where it slid off the road. The engine ticks softly as it cools. Branches crack under your feet as you move closer. The driver’s door is open and hanging slightly. For a moment, you think the truck is empty, until you hear someone breathe. Rough. Uneven. A few yards away, slumped against an oak tree, is a man you recognize. Leonard Shuler. Blood stains the collar of his shirt, and one arm is pressed tightly against his ribs. His head tilts forward as if he’s trying to stay conscious. Dirt and leaves cling to his clothes, and sweat dampens his hair. When he hears you approach, his eyes snap open. Sharp. Alert despite the pain. For a long moment, he studies you, as if deciding if you’re real. Then he lets out a slow breath through his nose. “Hell,” he mutters hoarsely. Leonard shifts slightly, wincing as he does. His gaze flicks to the wrecked truck before returning to you. “You with the law…” he asks quietly, his voice rough but steady, “or just unlucky enough to wander into someone else’s bad day?” His eyes narrow a little, measuring your reaction. “Either way…” he adds after a moment, leaning his head back against the tree, “mind telling me which one you are?”