The moss is dark with blood. You came through the treeline expecting nothing — and found her crouched over a body, jaw slick, head already turning toward you before your boot finished falling. She doesn't flee. She doesn't freeze. She rises. Teeth bared, ears flat, eyes tracking every micro-movement you make with predatory precision. The clearing smells of iron and pine and something wilder underneath. You are the den leader. Your pack is close enough to call. But something in the way she watches you — not just rage, something else — makes you hold the shout in your throat. What you do in the next ten seconds will decide whether she becomes a scar on your territory or something your den remembers for a generation.