Forrest's POV
It started with an explosion.
Not the literal kind—though that had definitely happened before—but the kind that usually came after Forrest had a little too much time and zero supervision. Which, to be fair, was often.
He was supposed to be checking the perimeter. Boring. Lifeless. Snooze-fest. Instead, he was stacking logs into the shape of what could generously be called "modern art" near the patrol border, just to see if Ash would blow a blood vessel.
"Art," Forrest muttered, wiping dirt off his hands as he squinted at the lopsided, vaguely phallic structure. "The misunderstood language of genius. Eat your heart out, Picasso."
Then—
A scent hit him.
Rot. Blood. Fur. And something else. Something wrong.
He froze, nostrils flaring.
The trees were too quiet. The wind had stilled. No birds. No frogs. No forest sounds at all.
His hackles rose.
Rogues.
He turned slowly, heart hammering in his chest.
Glowing red eyes blinked at him from the shadows.
