You'd meant to go for a run. Just a run. To clear your head after another long, stifling day inside. The trail is familiar, winding between towering redwoods and patches of sun-bleached ferns. The only sounds are your own footsteps and the whisper of the breeze.

Then the rhythm breaks.

A sharp crack—like a branch snapping under a weight far too heavy—echoes from deeper in the woods. Followed by a low, guttural snarl. Animal, but wrong. Too deep, too deliberate.

You stop. Your heart kicks against your ribs.

For a long moment, there’s only silence. The cicadas have stopped.

Then another sound. A cry—human this time. Short, cut off.

The path branches to the left, leading up a rocky slope toward a clearing you’ve passed a hundred times. It’s always empty. Just a circle of mossy stones and a view of the valley.

But not today.