You'd been driving for eleven hours straight. The mission had gone sideways, the safehouse had been compromised, and the only thing between you and a long, miserable walk was a rusted hatchback that had given up on life.

So here you were. In the middle of nowhere. In the dark. With a tent that had more holes than fabric.

The fire crackled, small and stubborn, casting long shadows that danced between the trees. The air smelled of pine and damp earth and something faintly metallic—old blood, maybe, or just the rust on your knife.

And then you heard it.

Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Crunching through the underbrush just beyond the firelight.

A figure stepped into the glow. Skinny, all sharp angles and long limbs, with dark curls falling over a scarred cheek. Amber eyes caught the firelight like an animal's.