The stride spacing is clean and even. No erratic shifts. No chase pattern. I follow the trail as it arcs along the clearing’s edgeand mount a second camera higher this time—six feet up, angled downward.
“If this is an isolated population,” I say quietly, tightening the mount, “we could be looking at localized adaptation. Larger skeletal frames due to reduced genetic exchange. Closed breeding pool inside Blackmoore territory.”
The word territory feels less abstract now.
I install a third camera farther north, overlapping the first two fields of view. By the time I’ve mounted six, dusk is bleeding into the trees and the clearing has gone gray.
I do a final perimeter sweep before heading inside.
The porch boards creak beneath my boots, and that’s when I see it—four deep gouges carved into the wood just beside the doorframe. Not splintered randomly. Clean. Parallel.
I kneel and press my fingers into the grooves. The wood is raw, pale where the top layer has been stripped.
“Claw marks on structure. Approximately five feet off ground,” I record. “Depth suggests force beyond exploratory contact. Intentional.”
I straighten and scan the tree line. The clearing holds still, quiet enough to ring in my ears.
Inside, I lock the door and set my laptop on the small kitchen table. Six live feeds flicker across the screen in grainy infrared—trees, underbrush, the dark stretch between forest and porch.
Battery levels green. Storage active.
I turn off the overhead light and let the cabin sink into shadow. The laptop glow paints the walls silver.
At 9:57 p.m., Camera Three flashes red.
I lean forward.
A shadow shifts near the base of a pine. The frame adjusts, then something fills the screen—shoulders first, broad and heavy. The wolf moves straight toward the lens, no circling, no sniffing.
It launches.
The feed jolts violently and goes black.
I stare at the dead window, then glance at the others.
“Targeted,” I say under my breath.
Camera Five triggers next.
The wolf enters from the left side of the frame, larger now that I know what I’m looking at. Long legs, thick chest, fur dark along the spine. It pauses beneath the mounted camera and tilts its head upward.
It leaps cleanly, jaws snapping around the device.
Static. Then nothing.
I exhale through my nose and check the timestamp.
Camera Two lights up.
The wolf is already mid-stride, moving closer to the cabin. Infrared catches its eyes in brief flashes—bright, reflective, focused. It doesn’t hesitate when it reaches the tree. It springs.
Black screen.
“That’s not accidental,” I mutter.
Camera One goes next, the farthest from the cabin. The wolf appears almost immediately, crossing the clearing with purpose. It doesn’t deviate. It doesn’t scan for prey. It moves directly toward the camera mount as if it knows exactly where it is.
Impact. Feed gone.
