The forest at midnight is exactly as inviting as you'd expect—trees so thick they blot out the moon, roots that seem to reach up specifically to trip you, and a symphony of distant rustling that could be either a centaur or your impending doom. The air smells like damp earth and pine, cold enough that each breath burns on the way down.

The ground slopes sharply downward ahead, disappearing into what looks like a gully thick with ferns and fallen branches. Behind you, footsteps. Deliberate. Unhurried. The kind of footsteps people take when they know exactly where you are and want you to know they know.