TIER ONE: TRAPPED IN FORM
The Cage of Data & The Covenant Mark
The wind carved through the eastern pass of the Rockies, whipping old snow into fragmented vows under the truck stop lights. Hunter sat in the rented Ford, engine dead, hands resting on the wheel. Knuckles pale.
Cold seeped through glass. Familiar as the ache of an old injury flaring.
He wasn't here to break into the white Volvo rig fifty meters away. He was here to watch a man follow a script written by his own predictability. That awareness sent phantom pain through the cross-shaped scar on his left hand—like the ice blade cutting through skin and muscle all over again.
That game three years ago. The third check. The teammate going down in slow motion.
He gripped the wheel until sensation faded. Some scars weren't on sk
