The forest no longer breathed like it used to. Every sound—the crack of a twig, the shift of leaves, even the hum of beetles deep in the bark—carried weight. It was as though the newborn had rewritten the silence, turning it into a hunting ground.
Buzz crouched low, his claws sunk into damp soil. The gold streaks under his shell pulsed faintly, each beat like a brand reminding him of what lingered in his veins. He hated the rhythm—it wasn't his, and it never let him forget that.
Zza crawled beside him, silk stretched thin across her claws, repaired knots catching faint in the moonlight. She tilted her head, antennae twitching. "It's shifting," she whispered. "Not moving closer. Just… sliding through the canopy. Like it's waiting for us to make the first mistake."
Buzz let out a sharp click of his mandibles. "That's all it does. Wait. Watch. Copy. It doesn't fight like her—it doesn't need to. It wants us to fall before it even strikes."
