Morning came slowly to the forest, not with a burst of light but with a gradual thinning of darkness. Mist clung low to the ground, winding between tree trunks like pale smoke. Dew gathered on leaves, dripping in soft, irregular rhythms that echoed faintly through the still air.
High above it all, John lay awake.
He hadn't slept much.
Not because of danger — there had been none.
Because his mind refused to settle.
The new lair fit him perfectly. The stone beneath him held the night's coolness, steady and grounding. The open entrance framed the waking forest like a living painting, colors shifting as light slowly filtered through the canopy below.
Everything was calm.
Too calm.
John exhaled, a thin trail of smoke curling from his nostrils and dissipating into the cold air.
"…I should be satisfied."
He wasn't.
