Team Toma:
They moved through the forest with a rhythm that didn't match the panic around them—walk, stop, observe, move again.
Kell went first, light on his feet, hands loose, eyes wandering like he was bored. He looked like someone out for a stroll, not someone hunting a target while the entire forest boiled with violence.
Toma followed several steps behind, quieter, heavier in presence. His eyes didn't drift. They measured. The ground. The bark. The space between branches.
They stopped at another plant.
Kell crouched and tilted his head as if he were inspecting a piece of art. "Looks right."
Toma didn't answer immediately. He knelt, brushed dirt away from the stem, checked the underside of the leaves, the way the roots spread. His fingers were careful, almost respectful. Not because he cared about the plant—because he cared about being wrong.
"No," he said.
Kell exhaled through his nose and stood. "That's the fifth one."
Toma marked the spot in his head anyway. A habit he formed as a child.
They moved on.
A few minutes later, another plant—this one closer to the path, too exposed, too obvious.
Kell glanced back over his shoulder. "Please tell me this is the one."
Toma shook his head. "Vein's wrong."
"You're obsessed with veins," Kell muttered, already turning away.
Toma didn't correct him. It wasn't obsession. It was pattern recognition. The real plant had a vein structure that looked almost deliberate, like it had been drawn rather than grown. Everything else was a copy that didn't understand what it was copying.
They kept going.
The sun shifted higher. Light filtered through the canopy at a sharper angle now, thin blades of brightness slicing through green. Sweat clung to Kell's neck. Toma felt it soak into the lining of his coat and stay there, uncomfortable and cold.
They stopped again.
This one fooled Kell completely. He grinned, already reaching into his pocket for a capsule.
Toma caught his wrist.
"No."
Kell looked down at Toma's hand like it was an insult. "Why?"
"Smell," Toma said.
Kell leaned in, sniffed, then recoiled so hard he nearly fell backward. "Okay, wow. Yeah. Nope."
They moved on.
It happened slowly.
So slowly that neither of them could point to the exact moment it began.
The forest went quiet.
Not silent—never fully silent—but wrong. The texture of sound changed. The birds didn't stop all at once; they thinned out. Insects didn't vanish; their buzz grew sparse, like someone turning down a dial.
Kell noticed first.
He stopped walking.
Toma took two more steps before realizing Kell wasn't beside him anymore. He turned and saw Kell standing still, shoulders lifted just slightly, like his body had noticed danger before his mind caught up.
Kell didn't whistle this time.
"Hey," he said softly. "Do you feel that?"
Toma paused.
And then he did.
It started at his shoulders and moved towards his whole body.
Like the air had thickened, pressing against his chest, his skull. Like standing underwater without being wet. Every breath felt a fraction heavier than it should've been. Every thought had to push through resistance.
Toma turned slowly.
He saw him.
A man stood between two trees not ten meters away.
Young. Brown hair cut into a neat, rounded shape that looked almost ridiculous out here, like someone had groomed him for a school photo. Yellow pants. An orange shirt—clean, unmarked. No visible weapon. No dirt on his knees. No sweat on his brow.
He stood relaxed, hands loose at his sides, head tilted slightly as if he'd been waiting and was mildly amused they'd finally arrived.
Kell swallowed.
"Oh," he said. "That's not good."
The man smiled with confidence.
Kell didn't wait.
He turned around and ran.
No warning. No joke. No glance back. He vanished into the brush in seconds, moving fast and low, the way animals fled when they knew the predator didn't need to hurry.
Toma didn't follow.
He stayed where he was.
Not because he was brave.
Because the weight in the air made movement feel like a decision with severe consequences.
The man's eyes shifted, locking onto him.
Toma's heart rate spiked, but his mind stayed sharp. He reached into his coat, fingers finding familiar shapes.
"Who are you?" Toma asked.
The man considered him for a moment, like he was deciding whether the question deserved an answer.
Then he spoke—soft, almost casual.
"You won't need that," he said.
Toma's jaw tightened.
He threw.
The first needle cut through the air cleanly, aimed at the man's shoulder.
The man didn't move as the needle struck and fell harmlessly away.
He threw another.
Same result.
The man tilted his head, curious now.
Toma didn't give him time to enjoy it. He moved—one step back, shifting his angle, trying to break whatever line existed between them.
The man reached to his belt and pulled free three small, round objects. Smooth. Dull gray.
He tossed the first one casually.
It landed behind Toma with a soft thud.
The second landed a few steps in front of him.
The third rolled to a stop just to his left.
The pressure changed.
Toma felt it instantly. The space around him tightened, invisible lines snapping into place. The air didn't just feel heavy now—it felt arranged, like the forest itself had been forced into geometry.
Every instinct he had screamed that moving the wrong way would be a mistake.
The man took a step forward and ran.
He cut right, then left, ducking under branches, sliding over roots. His breath stayed controlled. His pace was fast but measured.
"Tsk"
Behind him, footsteps followed. Toma did not need to turn his head to know who it was.
The man kept a distance of 4 meters not even trying to catch up to him.
No matter how hard Toma pushed, the distance didn't change.
He veered downhill.
The man followed.
Up over exposed roots.
The man followed.
Toma threw another needle backward without looking.
The same thing as before happened.
Toma's stomach went cold.
He pushed harder.
Still four meters.
The man wasn't gaining.
He wasn't falling back.
Toma cut sharply through thicker brush, scraping bark and leaves, then doubled back at an angle, changing elevation, direction, rhythm. He broke patterns. He made patterns. He destroyed them again.
Nothing worked.
The pressure stayed locked on him, steady and suffocating.
Then he realized it.
The man wasn't chasing him.
He was guiding him.
Every turn Toma took funneled him the same way. Every attempt to break free nudged him back onto the same invisible path, like walls he couldn't see were closing off every other option.
He focused.
Listened.
Ahead he heard voices.
Toma burst through the last line of trees and skidded to a stop.
The clearing opened suddenly.
Rina was on her knees.
Mira lay on the ground, blood dark against her clothes, her breathing broken and shallow. Cael stood between them and the trees, needles already in hand, posture held tight and ready.
Everyone froze.
The pressure rolled in behind Toma like a wave.
The man stepped into view at the edge of the clearing and stopped.
Rina looked up.
Her eyes locked onto him.
Cael grabbed his needles and stood ready.
Mira stirred weakly on the ground, a small motion that looked like it cost her everything.
The man smiled.
Not at Rina.
Not at Cael.
At all of them.
Like this was exactly where he'd meant to end up.
ps?