The air was thick, wet with decay. Every step they took made the ground squelch beneath their boots, the blackened vines clutching at their legs like greedy hands. The faint glow from their flashlights barely cut through the fog, and the distant echo of something—breathing? scraping?—made every nerve in Kyleigh’s body tighten. She led the group by instinct, just a step ahead, but not too far. Her gun was in hand, steady, almost casual. Nothing about her betrayed the tension she felt.