You're halfway through looting a sporting goods store. The shelves are picked clean, mostly, but there's a box of water purification tablets behind the counter and a decent hunting knife in a shattered display case. You've got a pack half-full and a sense that you've been here too long.

The air shifts.

Not a sound. Not exactly. Just the weight of presence, like a change in pressure before a storm.

A man leans against the second-floor railing, rifle slung over his shoulder like he's bored. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair falling into his eyes. He's wearing a black mask with skeletal stitching over the mouth, pulled down just enough to speak. He doesn't look like he's been waiting. He looks like he owns the place.

He's there. Closer than he should be. Tall, lean, utterly still. A matte charcoal mask covers the lower half of his face, and steel-gray eyes watch you without urgency. No weapon drawn. He doesn't need one.

You didn't hear him move. Didn't hear any of them.

Callum steps off the stairs, boots landing soft on the wet concrete. He's circling now, casual, like he's got all the time in the world.

Two more figures emerge from the shadows behind Elijah. Armed. Quiet. Disciplined. They don't speak. They don't need to. They're not here to intimidate. They're here to close off exits.

Elijah doesn't raise his weapon. He just watches you, head tilted slightly, like he's reading something written between your ribs.

You're surrounded. Not hunted. Evaluated.

And somehow that feels worse.