She stepped off at a station that smelled of pine and damp earth, far from the concrete labyrinth she called home. The lyrics of a half-forgotten song hummed in her head: I’ve been running through the jungle, I’ve been running with the wolves.

The path ahead wasn't a road; it was a memory. She began to walk, her boots crunching over dried leaves. As the moon rose, heavy and silver, the forest began to breathe. It wasn't silent. There was a rhythm to the wind, a low-fi heartbeat that matched the steady pulse of her own stride.

Suddenly, a low howl broke the stillness. Then another. They weren't cries of hunger, but calls of recognition. Elena looked toward the tree line and saw them—shadows moving with liquid grace. They didn't approach to hurt; they stood as sentinels.