The highway lay stretched beneath the midnight sky like a quiet scar across the land, its long lines of asphalt reflecting faint traces of distant light, though no passing cars disturbed the silence that had settled there.
Michele Ferrara stood beside his vehicle, one hand resting lightly against the hood, his posture relaxed in appearance, yet there was a stillness about him that spoke of awareness sharpened rather than dulled.
The air carried the faint scent of dust and cooling metal, the kind that lingered after long travel, though his journey had never truly been about distance alone.
His gaze lingered on the road ahead, though his thoughts remained elsewhere, circling something far behind him, something that had not released its hold.
"She's not prey," he said quietly.
His fingers tapped once against the metal.
The words were not uncertain.
They were settled.
