As he passed through the gate, he looked back one more time. I pressed myself further into the greenery, though I knew he couldn't see me. No one ever did when I didn't want them to.
“He leaves good things,”the ivy noted, picking up on my thoughts. Plants didn't think in words, exactly, but in impressions and sensations that my mind translated.“Warm feelings. Not like the others.”
"I know," I whispered back, barely audible even to myself. The cook—I'd heard others call him Rooster—left better food than I'd found anywhere else. Real meals, not just scraps or expired convenience store castoffs. Sometimes there were even desserts. Last night, he'd given me that bag of supplies that now rested in my hidden camp half a mile away.
The gate swung closed behind the last motorcycle, and silence settled over the property. I remained perfectly still, a skill I'd mastered years ago. Stillness meant survival. Movement caught attention, and attention usually meant trouble.
I'd wait here another hour at least. The clubhouse wasn't empty—I'd spotted movement in the windows upstairs, probablyother members who weren't joining the ride. But fewer people meant less risk of being seen if I decided to approach the picnic table early tonight.
The plants rustled, sending a new warning.“Stranger. Not pack-metal-beast man. Different.”
I tensed, following their direction toward the eastern corner of the property. A figure in dark clothing moved along the fence line, keeping to the shadows. Male, average height, wearing a black hoodie and gloves despite the afternoon warmth. His movements were furtive, stopping frequently to check his surroundings.
This wasn't someone who belonged here. I recognized the behavior—I'd used it myself when scoping out potential shelters or food sources. But there was something predatory in the way he moved, something that made the hair on my arms stand up.
He reached the back door of the clubhouse and pulled something from his pocket. A thin metal tool glinted in the sunlight as he worked at the lock. I'd seen enough break-ins on the street to know what he was doing.
“Danger-to-nest,”the blackberry bush beside me hummed anxiously. Plants understood territory and violation on a primal level.
The door swung open, and the man slipped inside.
I bit my lip, conflict churning in my gut. This wasn't my problem. I wasn't part of this club. I was just a homeless nobody who occasionally took their leftover food. The smart move—the survival move—would be to disappear now, find another feeding spot until things settled.
But the image of the red-haired cook flashed in my mind. His careful placement of the plastic fork that I never used. The extra containers when the weather turned cold. The hoodie he'd included in last night's bag—too large for me, but warmer than anything I owned.
Small kindnesses that had kept me alive.
The plants sensed my indecision.“Your choice,”they seemed to say.“Always yours.”
That was the thing about plants—unlike humans, they never judged my decisions. They simply witnessed.
I weighed my options. The intruder was bigger than me, probably stronger. I was fast but malnourished, and while my lynx strength gave me advantages, it had limits. If he had a weapon...
But I knew the building's layout from weeks of careful observation. I knew where the shadows were deepest, which floorboards creaked from watching club members through windows. And the intruder didn't know I was here.
Surprise was sometimes better than strength.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I slipped from my hiding spot, moving in a low crouch toward the back door. The plants whispered encouragement as I passed, their leaves brushing against my clothes like tiny hands pushing me forward.
I paused at the threshold, taking one deep breath. This was stupid. This was dangerous. This was possibly the worst decision I'd made in years of making mostly good ones that had kept me alive.
But it felt right.
I stepped inside, into the warm kitchen that smelled of the red-haired man and fresh bread and safety. Then I closed the door silently behind me and followed the sound of unfamiliar footsteps deeper into the building.
I moved through the clubhouse like a shadow, each step placed with deliberate care. The hardwood floors that would have creaked under anyone else's weight remained silent beneath mine—a skill learned through years of needing to be invisible.
The intruder wasn't nearly as careful, his footsteps echoing softly down the hallway ahead. Amateur. If you were going to rob someone, at least have the decency to be good at it.
My lynx senses tracked him easily. His scent—cheap cologne and cigarettes. His breathing—slightly elevated. The faint rustle of synthetic fabric as he moved. He paused at each door, looking inside before moving on. Searching for something specific.
I kept to the shadows, my body close to the wall. Years on the streets had left me skinnier than I should be, but it made me quieter, more agile. I could slip through spaces others couldn't see.
The man stopped outside a door near the end of the hall, checked both directions, and then slipped inside. I counted to ten before approaching, my bare feet making no sound on the wooden floor. The door had been left slightly ajar—another amateur move.
I peered through the crack. An office. Desk, computer, filing cabinets. Photos and motorcycle memorabilia on the walls. The largest chair behind the desk marked this as an important room—probably belonging to the bearded leader I'd observed so many times from my hiding spot.
The intruder was already seated at the computer, fingers moving rapidly across the keyboard. A small device protruded from one of the USB ports, blinking with a red light.
