By the time Dave stumbled out of the woods, the sun was barely climbing.
His boots were dragging, ribs on fire, and every step felt like a receipt for the night he just survived.
But his grip never left the bag.
Inside? A ghost's trail. A legacy in ashes.
The safe house door opened before he could knock twice.
Eleanor stood there.
Hair tied back. Hands still stained from tending wounds. Eyes that had already seen too much.
She took one look at him and crossed her arms.
"What the hell happened to you?"
Dave stepped past her, quiet. Straight to the kitchen table, where he dropped the muddy bag with a dull thud.
"Got into a fight," he muttered.
"Looks like you lost," she said, shutting the door behind him.
He didn't respond. Just unzipped the bag and pulled it open.
First—the dog tag.
KADE, DEVLIN.
Then—the burnt notebook, edges curled, names crossed.
Last—a photo. The Wolf. A woman. A child. Their faces scratched out like the past didn't want to be seen.
Eleanor's teasing stopped. Her tone dropped.
"Where did you get that?"
Dave slumped into a chair.
"Burning shack. Middle of the woods. Left behind by the guy I told you about. The one from the bar…"
"The Old Wolf?"
He nodded. "He didn't speak a word. Just dropped twelve men in a heartbeat, vanished, and left this behind. Like he knew I'd follow."
She picked up the photo, studying it in silence.
"You think he's warning us?"
Dave looked at the dog tag, then the notebook.
"Nah. I think he's handing me the gun."
The photo sat between them on the table like a haunted memory.
Burnt edges. Faded colors. Three people. The Wolf, a woman, and a child—faces scratched out like someone was trying to erase the truth.
Eleanor stared at it longer than Dave expected.
Her brow furrowed.
Her fingers hovered over the woman in the photo.
"No way," she whispered.
Dave glanced up. "What?"
She didn't answer right away. Just kept staring—like her brain was fighting with time.
Then she finally said it.
"I knew her."
"The woman," she added, tapping the scorched image gently. "She used to come into the clinic back in Crestwell. Never gave a full name… just went by 'Lenna.' Always wore long sleeves. Quiet, but sharp. Like she knew things she wasn't saying."
Dave leaned forward, tension rising in his chest.
"You sure it's her?"
Eleanor nodded slowly. "She wore this exact necklace," she said, pointing to a barely-visible charm around the woman's neck in the photo. "She was scared, Dave. Always looking over her shoulder. One time I asked if she was safe at home and she just laughed. Not a happy laugh. The kind you use when the truth is too damn painful to say out loud."
Dave ran a hand down his face.
"So the Old Wolf had a family… and something happened."
Eleanor looked at him, eyes sharper now.
"Something bad. And if this photo survived all that fire, it wasn't by accident."
She slid the photo toward him.
"He wanted someone to see this."
Dave stared at the image. At the woman Eleanor remembered.
At the scratches over a child's face.
"Then I guess it's my turn to start asking questions."
Dave barely made it to his feet.
He clutched the table for balance, lips parting to speak—but the moment he stepped forward, his knees buckled.
Thud.
Flat on the floor. Out cold.
Eleanor rushed to him.
"Of course," she muttered, kneeling. "Dumbass finally shuts up after surviving the woods."
She checked his pulse—steady, just overworked. She smirked.
"And here I was hoping you'd at least make it to dessert."
She got him onto the couch, threw a blanket over him, and went back to the stove. The scent of garlic and stew filled the house. The kind of normal that tried to fight the chaos.
But then…
She felt it.
Pressure.
One outside the front door. Another just beyond the kitchen window.
She didn't flinch. Didn't pause. Just stirred the pot like everything was fine.
But in her other hand, she grabbed the butcher knife off the counter.
She whispered to herself, steady:
"You picked the wrong night."
She stood in front of the door—back pressed to the wall, knife gripped tight.
But the men outside?
Smarter this time.
They weren't interested in making noise.
The one by the window slipped in first—quiet, quick. His gloved hand shot forward, grabbed her wrist with force. She gasped, tried to twist, but he was stronger.
Then the door swung open behind her.
The second man stepped in, clapping sarcastically.
"Tch. Really? A kitchen knife? And here I thought you were gonna give us a challenge."
Eleanor smirked through the pain, breathing steady.
"You scared of it or just jealous I cook better than your mama?"
His smile dropped. "Big mouth."
Then it hit.
The man holding her wrist tightened his grip—yanking her arm behind her back to immobilize her.
But Eleanor twisted her hips, stomped his shin, and slammed her heel into his foot.
He flinched. Not much—but just enough.
She broke free, barely.
The front guy lunged—she ducked the swing and jammed the knife toward his thigh. Missed. But it cut through his jacket. He growled.
She spun to run toward the hallway—maybe to grab Dave's gun.
But the first man recovered fast—grabbed her by the hair and threw her into the wall.
She hit hard. The wind knocked out of her.
Her knees buckled.
"Tough girl," one of them muttered.
"Let's see how tough you are when you're begging."
They stepped forward.
But Eleanor, wheezing, still holding onto the knife, lifted it again.
"You first."