A shape appeared.
Rectangular.
Thin.
Shiny.
Like a metal tag.
Nora inhaled sharply. “What is that?”
I knew.
Immediately.
Dog tags.
Old ones.
Trigger cursed. “He’s not just some stalker. He’s ex-military.”
Saint added quietly, “Or pretending to be.”
But my gut spoke louder than logic.
“Not pretending,” I said. “That footprint. The discipline. The symbols. The countdown. The partner. The way he vanished into the woods.”
Nora gripped my sleeve. “Wolf… do you know him?”
“No.” I shook my head. “But I know what he is.”
Tate stiffened. “Then say it.”
I met each of their eyes.
“He’s trained. Highly.
Not civilian.
Not random.
Not sloppy.”
I exhaled slowly.
“He’s someone who learned how to stalk, track, and vanish under pressure. Someone who learned how to manipulate terrain, cameras, and angles. Someone who understands fear and how to weaponize it.”
Trigger asked quietly, “So what are we hunting?”
I looked at the still frame again.
The dog tag.
The deliberate stance.
The mirrored angle of his partner’s step.
And the way he looked directly at the camera—
