Continued

They were not afraid.

The thought lingered weakly, barely forming before slipping again, but it stayed long enough to matter.

Footsteps moved through the underbrush—not hurried, not careless. Measured. The kind of movement that didn’t avoid the forest, but belonged to it. Leaves shifted under weight that knew exactly where to step. Branches brushed aside without snapping.

Closer.

Louise tried to turn her head. The effort barely registered—just a faint pull somewhere along her neck that didn’t complete. Her body remained where it had fallen, heavy and unresponsive, cheek pressed into damp soil that smelled of iron and rot.

A shape passed through the blur of her vision. Then another.

Dark against darker.

One of them stopped a few feet from her. She could feel it—not through touch, but through presence. Solid. Still. Watching.

A voice broke the quiet. Low. Even.

“…that’s fresh.”

Another voice answered, slightly sharper, but just as controlled. “Not long. An hour, maybe less.”

“Less,” a third said. “Blood’s still warm.”

Louise’s breath stuttered again, a faint, broken sound that scraped past her lips. It wasn’t loud—but it was enough.

Silence followed.

Not startled. Not confused. Just a pause—like something had confirmed what it already suspected.

“She’s alive.”

The words landed with quiet certainty. No disbelief. No urgency. Just fact.

A shift in the air. Movement closer.

Boots—she could see them now, just barely, through the narrowing tunnel of her vision. Dirt-streaked. Steady. One of them crouched beside her, the motion smooth, deliberate.

A hand hovered near her shoulder—not touching. Not yet.

“She shouldn’t be,” the second voice said. Not questioning. Observing.

“No,” the first replied. “She shouldn’t.”

Fingers pressed lightly against the side of her neck.

Louise felt it distantly—the contact, the pressure. Her pulse fluttered weakly beneath the touch, inconsistent, slipping in and out like it might vanish between beats.

The hand remained there longer than necessary. Measuring. Confirming.

“…it’s slow,” the voice murmured.

“But it’s there,” another answered.

A pause.

Then, quieter—closer now, almost thoughtful:

“Look at the wounds.”

Fabric shifted. Hands moved—not rough, not gentle either. Efficient. Her sleeve was pulled back just enough to expose torn flesh beneath, the bite marks jagged and deep, edges darkened with drying blood.

One of them exhaled softly. Not shock. Recognition.

“That’s not clean.”

“No,” the second voice agreed. “It’s not controlled.”

“Unstable?”

“Has to be.”

Louise tried to focus, to pull the words into something she could understand, but they slipped through her like water. Meaning hovered just out of reach.

Another hand—colder this time—pressed briefly against her ribs, then lifted.

“She’s lost too much blood.”

“She should be gone already.”

A beat of silence followed that—longer this time. Heavier.

Then the first voice spoke again, lower now.

“…and yet.”

The hand returned to her neck, fingers pressing more firmly this time, as if expecting to find nothing.

But her pulse answered again.

Weak.

Uneven.

Still there.

The man beside her shifted slightly, leaning closer. Louise could feel the change in proximity, the way his shadow blocked what little light filtered through the trees.

“She shouldn’t still be breathing.”