The pack house looks peaceful.
That’s what unsettles me.
Morning light filters through the tall windows, dust motes drifting lazily in the air. Someone laughs in the distance—too loud, too forced. The scent of coffee mixes with pine and sweat and something sharper underneath it all. Tension doesn’t announce itself here. It settles. It watches.
I feel it in my bones.
People move with purpose now. Patrol rotations have doubled. No one lingers in hallways. Doors close more softly than usual, like everyone is afraid of waking something sleeping just beneath the ground.
The forest feels closer too.
Not physically—but the way a predator feels close even when you can’t see it.
The voice in my head is awake before I am.
Not speaking.
Listening.
⸻
Training starts earlier than usual.
Luc
