The fog hung low that morning when Rylan Shore went out for his usual walk. The countryside fields were quiet, coated in silence. He enjoyed the peace — until a sharp, sudden sting hit his side.
A tranquilizer dart.
The world hazed and tilted. Rylan’s knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the cold ground, unable to move or speak.
Footsteps approached — steady and unhurried.
Merrick Hale emerged from the mist, a rugged-looking man with a hardened expression. He wasn’t there to help. He had been waiting for someone to pass through the isolated clearing.
He knelt beside Rylan, lifting his shirt slightly only to check for signs of consciousness — not injury. Rylan was awake, but barely. His vision was fogged, and every muscle felt heavy.
“Good,” Merrick muttered. “You’ll stay down for a while.”
He searched with practiced efficiency, pulling off Rylan’s backpack, going through pockets, removing anything of value — wallet, watch, phone, even the small packet of trail snacks. He worked quickly, his movements sure, as though he had done this before.
Rylan tried to speak, but only a faint breath escaped.
Merrick didn’t gloat. He didn’t threaten. He simply worked with a cold, detached practicality.
Before leaving, he set the emptied backpack beside Rylan’s arm — a small gesture that somehow made the act feel even colder.
“You’ll wake up soon,” he said quietly. “And you’ll walk home. That’s enough.”
Then he disappeared back into the fog, leaving Rylan lying in the frost-laced grass, slowly trying to will feeling back into his fingers as the distant world gradually sharpened again.
