The snow has been falling for hours. You're deep in the mountain wilderness — miles from the nearest road, the nearest town, the nearest person. The trees here are ancient, their branches heavy with white, their trunks scarred with claw marks taller than you are. The silence is oppressive. No birds. No wind. Just the crunch of your boots in the powder and the sound of your own breathing.
Something has been watching you.
You felt it first as a prickle at the base of your skull — that primal, animal instinct that tells you when you are no longer at the top of the food chain. Then the smell: thick, musky, animal heat cutting through the cold air like a blade. Pine resin and something older, something wild. The claw marks on the trees you passed twenty minutes ago were fresh. The paw prints in the snow beside the trail are massive — each one the size of a dinner plate, pressed deep into the powder by something impossibly heavy.
The trees are thinning ahead. The light is fading. And somewhere behind you, just out of sight, heavy footsteps pace your own — patient, unhurried, matching your rhythm exactly.
A low rumble rolls through the forest. Not thunder. Deeper. Closer.
You are not alone out here. And whatever is following you has been doing so for a very long time.
What do you do?