POV: Kim
The old pickup truck ground to a halt by the rusted gas pumps, its exhaust coughing a final, structural complaint into the freezing mountain air.
The elderly driver didn't look at my torn cotton shirt, Frank’s oversized leather jacket, or the fact that my bare feet were caked in dried mud. He just nodded once—a dry, calm rustle of a man who knew when to stay out of the universe's way.
"End of the line, girl," he said, pushing the passenger door open.
I stepped out onto the coarse asphalt. The cold hit my shins like a series of small, sharp knives, but I didn't care. I was forty miles from The Den. I was forty miles away from the breaking bones, the molten amber eyes, and the terrifying realization that my high-stakes keepers were actual, literal predators.
The truck rumbl
