You move quickly along the worn trail, grateful for the brief ease it offers after battling through undergrowth and tangled roots. Sunlight filters down in patches, casting shifting patterns on the path ahead. But that comfort fades with every step—the feeling of being watched presses in like humidity. Behind you, leaves rustle. Branches sway without wind. A flicker of movement in your peripheral vision confirms what instinct already knows: something is following. Keeping its distance. Stalking.