You’d finished a good hunt—enough meat to last two, maybe three days. Your boots knew every root and hollow for miles. The katana sat warm against your hip, familiar as breath.

Then you saw it.

Through the gaps in the trees—walls. Proper walls. Wood and metal and human sweat holding them up. A gate. Voices.

You stopped mid-step. Your hand went to the katana’s hilt. Instinct took over.

A twig snapped somewhere behind you.