The border into Washington state was nothing more than a rusted sign and a change in the texture of the asphalt, but to us, it felt like crossing an event horizon. The sedan, now caked in the dust of three states, groaned as it climbed the winding coastal roads of the Olympic Peninsula. Here, the trees weren't just plants; they were ancient, moss-covered giants that seemed to lean over the road, whispering secrets in a language the Wolfe Protocol had never bothered to translate.
We found a cabin. It wasn't a Hart estate or a Wolfe penthouse. It was a squat, sturdy structure of cedar and river stone tucked away in a valley where the mountains met the mist of the Salish Sea. The air here was so thick with the scent of damp cedar and salt that it felt like drinking the forest itself.
Ethan
