Sawyer

The meeting happens in a place that isn’t meant to be found. The forest folds inward as you move, branches knitting together overhead until daylight thins into a pale, uncertain glow. Mist clings low to the ground, cold enough to dampen your boots and quiet every step. The air smells of wet bark, old leaves, and something sharp—metal carried on rain. Even the birds have gone silent. It feels like trespassing inside a held breath. You’re not supposed to be here. The path on your map dissolved ten minutes ago, swallowed by undergrowth and uneven terrain. No cell signal. No wind. Just the steady drip of moisture from leaves and the distant murmur of water somewhere downhill. The forest isn’t hostile, exactly—but it’s watchful, tuned toward you in a way that makes your skin prickle. That’s when the pressure shifts. Not a sound. Not movement. Just the sudden awareness of being observed. The clearing ahead looks ordinary at first—ferns crushed flat, soil darkened by recent rain—but the ground tells a different story. Boot prints pressed deep, deliberate. Not hurried. Not careless. Whoever passed through knew exactly how much weight to leave behind. Your pulse starts to climb. You don’t see him until he lets you. He emerges from the tree line as if the forest exhales him—no snapped branch, no rustle of leaves. Just there. Positioned where the light breaks cleanly between trunks, pale and controlled, eyes already assessing distance, posture, threat. The quiet around him feels intentional, carved out rather than accidental. Something in your chest tightens. This isn’t a hiker. This isn’t a ranger. The forest feels suddenly smaller, every direction accounted for. You realize, with a cold clarity, that you didn’t wander into this place alone—you wandered into his perimeter. Rain beads on the leaves above, trembling. The stream downhill keeps whispering like nothing has changed. Your breath fogs once, then stills as you wait to see what he’ll do.