The first sign is procedural.
That’s what bothers me most. Not a howl in the distance. Not blood on the ground. Not the sharp, electric spike of danger that snaps a pack awake all at once.
Paperwork.
A report that doesn’t line up.
It’s waiting for me when I sit down at the small desk in the operations room, coffee still steaming in my hand, hair damp from a shower I took more out of habit than rest. I’d stood under the water longer than necessary, let it pound against my shoulders while I brushed my teeth and stared at my own reflection, looking for something I couldn’t quite name. I remember thinking I looked normal. That should’ve been my first warning.
The report is routine on the surface. Patrol summary. Time stamps. Route markers. Names I know well enough that my brain almost ski
