"Day four, seven-oh-three," I say into the recorder, keeping my voice steady. "Experiencing heightened environmental awareness. Possible predator presence nearby. No visual confirmation yet."
I take three steps forward, eyes locked on the shadows between the trees.
Nothing moves.
I exhale slowly and turn back to the tracks?—
And he's there. Ten feet away. Standing in the center of the trail like he materialized out of smoke.
I didn't hear him. Didn't see him approach. One second the path was empty, the next he's blocking it, arms loose at his sides, posture deceptively relaxed.
He's tall—six-three, maybe taller—with dark hair that's too long and falls across his forehead in a way that suggests he doesn't care. His jaw is sharp enough to cut glass, and his eyes are the kind of gray that shifts between steel and storm depending on the light. Right now, they're fixed on me with an intensity that makes my breath hitch.
He's wearing a faded thermal shirt and jeans that have seen better days, boots caked in mud. No jacket, despite the cold. No gear. Just him and the forest and the deliberate way he's standing between me and the trail ahead.
"Turn around." His voice is low, controlled. The kind of tone that expects obedience without negotiation.
I straighten, keeping my hands visible. "Excuse me?"
"You're trespassing on private land. Turn around and leave."
"Private land." I pull the topo map from my jacket pocket, unfold it, and point to the easement zones marked in green. "According to county records, this section falls under public forest easement. I have legal access."
His jaw tightens. "Maps don't matter. This is mountain territory. You don't belong here."
"Mountain territory." I tilt my head, studying him. "You say that like it's sovereign land. Last I checked, Montana still follows federal easement law."
He doesn't answer. Just takes a step closer, and the air between us shifts—heavier, charged with something I can't name. His eyes don't leave mine, and there's something unsettling about the way he's looking at me. Not threatening, exactly. More like he's cataloging every detail, every breath, and filing it away for later.
"There are predators here you can't handle," he says quietly.
"I handle apex predators for a living." I fold the map and tuck it back into my pocket. "It's literally my job."
"Not like this."
"Then explain it to me." I cross my arms. "Because right now, all I see is someone trying to intimidate me off public land without cause."
His nostrils flare slightly. His hands curl into fists at his sides, then release. Like he's fighting to stay still.
"This is your warning," he says. "Turn back now, or you'll regret it."
"Noted."
I step around him, shoulder brushing his as I pass, and continue down the trail.
It takes all my willpower not to look back, to make sure he's not following. But I don't. Just keep walking, boots crunching on pine needles, recorder still running in my hand.
Behind me, silence.
No footsteps. No movement.
I risk a glance over my shoulder.
He's still right in the middle of the trail, watching me. His posture hasn't changed, but something in his expression has—something raw and unguarded that vanishes the second our eyes meet.
Then he turns and disappears into the tree line without a sound.
I stop, heart hammering against my ribs.
