The next howl came closer.

  It rolled up the slope in a jagged wave, snagging on rock and root, stripping what little warmth remained from the air. The last echoes curled under the stone overhang above his head and lodged there, vibrating behind his teeth like someone had struck a tuning fork against his skull.

  His right hand tightened around the dead phone until plastic dug into his palm.

  "Active participant," he whispered. "Sure. Let's see how that works out."

  The mailbox in the top-right of his sightline kept its lazy four-count pulse, the little red flag ticking up and down, patient. No fresh text. No tutorial. No pop-up offering Wolf Murder 101. Just that faint blue-green rectangle and the sense that something was watching and taking notes.

  Another howl answered from his left, higher on the slope. A third came from below, deeper, so low he felt it as much as heard it, pressure running up through the stone into his spine.

  "Four," he muttered. "Of course."

  The alcove that had been a smart move ten minutes ago now had one open side and two dead ends. Good back wall, solid overhang, and nowhere to go if things got bad. The slope outside had already tried to throw him down without the extra teeth involved.

  Boots scraped stone somewhere above him in careful, measured steps. More than one pair. A murmur of voices rode the sound, low and sharp, words blurred by distance and accent into something that tugged at his brain without resolving. Hunters, his gut supplied. Not hunted. Which still left the question of what that made him.

  The mountain below went quiet in that wrong way again. No insects, no birds, just dry leaf-sigh and the occasional knock of stone on stone as something big shifted weight down there. He angled himself to see as much as the alcove allowed: the dark drop, the gate wall to his left, the sliver of sky straight ahead, gone the color of old primer.

  Something moved between the trunks.

  At first it was only thicker shadow, slipping from tree to tree with a smoothness that made his hackles lift. Then it crossed a gap where scrub thinned and he caught pieces. A shoulder higher than his chest even hunched. Fur not any honest earth brown but muddied charcoal shot through with pale streaks, like ash dragged through wet soot. A long muzzle tilted up toward him and eyes caught what little light there was, dull and heavy, like coals burned down but refusing to die.

  His breath tried to lock. He forced it back into motion.

  "Big coyote," he told himself. "Big coyote with anger issues."

  The lie didn't help.

  The thing flowed forward, paws eating distance without visible effort. Claws ticked on exposed stone as it left the undergrowth and angled across the open slope below his niche. The surface that had tried to dump him didn't bother it at all. It shifted weight as easily as he did on shingles to keep from sliding.

  Another shape slipped out to his right, then another to his left, until there were four on the hillside. No formation, just a loose net tightening toward him.

  Combat data pending.

  The ghost text flickered at the edge of his vision, half-formed and gone.

  "Yeah," he breathed. "No kidding."

  Boots on stone came closer, still out of sight. The voices snapped back and forth, short and businesslike, the tone of people on a job, not hikers surprised by wildlife.

  For half a second the stupid part of him wanted to stand up, wave his arms, and yell hey, guys, weird human, not from around here, please fix this.

  The rest of him remembered he was unarmed, bleeding, and wedged into a hole in some dungeon wall on a mountain that didn't appear on any map he knew.

  Roofing had taught him things. Don't trust a surface that looks too smooth. Don't stand under weight you haven't checked. If you're choosing between bad options, pick the one where gravity is at least not actively trying to kill you.

  Gravity wasn't on his side anywhere here.

  The nearest wolf, or whatever they were, lifted its head again. Nostrils flared. Muscles bunched along its shoulders in a way his body recognized below thought. That was a thing about to commit.

  It turned toward the alcove.

  "Shit."

  He slid his heels under him, boots as close to the lip as he dared. The stone edge was mid-shin from this side, a little rampart to keep him from rolling out in his sleep. From the outside, it would be something to catch on.

  He'd had a hammer, a pry bar, anything with weight and reach, he'd have felt better. As it was he had a dead phone, loose rocks, and very breakable bones.

  "Okay," he whispered, more to pin his own brain in place than anything. "We're improvising."

  The first wolf came into full view, climbing in a smooth, relentless line toward the gates. Up close, the scale shifted from that's big to that's a problem. Its back would reach his chest on level ground. Its coat clung tight along the ribs, showing dense muscle built for lunges and sudden stops, not jogs. Its paws spread on the steeper patch below his niche, toes splaying, claws biting stone.

  It looked up. Their eyes met.

  For a heartbeat the wrong thought struck: same pressure as the void, now with teeth, weighing itself against the idea of him.

  It bunched and sprang.

  Move, something in his spine screamed.

  He threw himself sideways before the word finished. His right wrist howled as it took some of his weight, pain shooting to his elbow like a live wire under the skin. The wolf's head and shoulders hit the stone lip where he'd been, claws scrabbling, jaws snapping on empty air hard enough that teeth clicked like breaking ceramic.

  Its forepaws hooked the edge. Rear legs scrabbled on the slope, stone clattering out under sudden load. For a second they seesawed, its weight half over, his body pinned to the far wall, the alcove suddenly half as deep as it had been.

  He didn't think. Thinking was for times when nothing was currently chewing on you.

  His left hand hit a rock about softball-size, half-buried in the dust. He grabbed it and swung at the nearest target: the side of the skull where it cleared the lip.

  Impact jumped up his arm like hitting a steel beam with a mallet. The wolf snarled, head jerked. One paw slipped, claws gouging pale furrows in the stone.

  "Down," he grunted through his teeth and swung again.

  The second hit landed higher, near the eye. Something gave with a sick, yielding crunch. The wolf's right eye went white and red at once. It screamed, a strangled sound that belonged nowhere near its earlier confident howls.

  Its weight shifted back. Rear paws lost purchase. For a heartbeat it hung by one hooked foreleg and the friction of its chest on the lip.

  He planted his boots against its shoulder and kicked.

  Pain tore through his ribs. The bruises from van and slab lit up like someone had slapped them. But the leverage was there. He'd shoved enough heavy, awkward things off roofs to know the angle.

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  The wolf broke loose.

  It went out and down in an ugly tumble, body slamming off the slope in bone-jarring bounces. Stone clattered with it, a spray of debris leaping in crooked arcs before disappearing into green. No satisfying bottom. Just absence.

  He lay there for half a breath, panting, rock still clenched, heart beating so loud he almost missed the next sound.

  A sharp thwip from upslope.

  Something long and dark streaked past at the edge of his vision and buried itself in the flailing wolf's side mid-fall. It convulsed once, then went limp in a way that said whatever that shaft was, it had found something important.

  Hunters. Definitely hunters.

  His brain wanted to slap DONE over the scene and shut down.

  The other three howled.

  The sound hit in overlapping waves, three sirens going off at once, one above, one below, one to the right. Not warning calls. Angry.

  Loose stone rattled again below as another body pounded up the slope.

  "Not done," he croaked. "So not done."

  The second wolf came at the alcove lower, hugging the wall, learning from its packmate's mistake. It didn't launch straight in. It tested the lip with one paw, then another, muscles flowing under its coat. Its muzzle wrinkled, baring teeth meant for cracking bone, not worrying at hide.

  "Stay," he told it. "Just stay down there, yeah?"

  It didn't understand English. It did understand warm meat in a hole.

  It lunged.

  This time he had no element of surprise. It hit lower and harder, chest slamming into stone, claws biting deep. The impact sent a tremor through the alcove floor, rattling his teeth. Its head speared forward, a blur of fur and teeth and hot breath that smelled of old blood and wet rock.

  He got the rock up out of reflex. Its jaws closed on his forearm instead.

  Pain wiped everything else for a moment. White, jagged, total. Not clean and sharp but grinding and chewing, broadcast straight to whatever old lizard-brain handled structural warnings.

  He screamed, raw and useless. It shook its head to drag his arm down, the motion slamming his shoulder into the wall, skull bouncing off stone. Lights burst behind his eyes. His right wrist, poor abused thing, flared under the new torque.

  Something deep decided this was the line.

  No.

  He jammed both knees into its chest and shoved, not out but up. The angle was ugly, the pain worse, but he wasn't trying to overpower it, just change vector.

  Its teeth tore out of his arm instead of taking the whole thing. New fire laced up from the shredded meat, hot and slick. Blood spattered stone.

  The wolf's head snapped up with the motion, muzzle scraping the alcove ceiling. Bone cracked. Its eyes squeezed shut for a blink, reflex, not real damage.

  That was all he got.

  He switched the rock to his left hand. Weaker arm, clumsier, but it still worked. He swung for the eye, but the head jerked. Rock caught snout instead, pulping flesh and snapping at least one tooth free. It howled into his face. The sound ballooned in the cramped space until his ears rang. Spit and blood flecked his skin.

  "Off," he snarled, voice tearing, and hit again.

  This time the rock caught the already-split ridge above its damaged eye. The bone there was thinner, already compromised from its collision with stone. Something gave with a wet crunch.

  The wolf spasmed. Front paws skidded on blood-slick stone. For a second it hung half-in, claws scoring lines that filled instantly with red. Then its weight tipped the wrong way.

  It fell. Not clean. One leg hooked the edge and twisted with it. He heard something tear that wasn't stone. It went down the slope in a broken tumble, leaving a smear behind.

  A second thwip from upslope. Another shaft chased it down. No yip this time.

  Two down.

  His vision narrowed and widened with his breathing. The arm the wolf had chewed was a bright, slick mess from elbow to wrist, already swelling. The bites were shallow compared to what they could have been, more skids than full closures, but "not catastrophic" was still a long walk from fine.

  Heat flushed through him, chased almost immediately by cold. Fingers tingled, went numb, then came back online in confused sequence.

  For a heartbeat he blamed shock.

  Then the mailbox flag jerked.

  The red tongue snapped up and down, and a ring of dull gold flared around the icon, brighter than at the last level. The world dimmed. Text slammed into focus.

  Combat data sufficient.

  Subject: Matas.

  Classification: Active participant.

  Level Index: 2.

  Resources partially restored.

  "No. No, no—"

  The protest ripped out as the system hit him.

  Not a single jolt this time. A series of glitches. Muscles fired out of order, like bad wiring shorting in a wall. Heat flooded his limbs until his teeth ached, cold followed, ripping breath from his lungs. Vertigo yanked the floor sideways. For a second he could not tell which way was down, stone and sky trading places.

  He grabbed for the wall with his good hand and caught air. His body decided they were falling and tried to brace for an impact that never came. Every injury screamed at once.

  The text hung there, indifferent, as if it were logging the strain it had caused.

  His chewed arm burned, then cooled. The worst of the open tears tugged, skin crawling as invisible thread drew edges together. Bleeding slowed but didn't stop. Deep in the muscle, bite marks still throbbed.

  His chest eased a fraction. The sharpest spikes in his ribs dulled to a heavy throb. His right wrist edged one notch closer to usable, if you hate yourself.

  In return, the hollowness came back double. It sat under his skin like someone had scraped out everything and left the shape behind, light and brittle. His hands shook. His legs felt like they were holding on out of stubbornness rather than structural integrity.

  "Great timing," he croaked at the air.

  The text blinked out. The mailbox shrank back to a faint presence, flag settling into that lazy four-count.

  Two more howls tore at the air, farther out.

  He forced his eyes back downslope.

  The remaining wolves had problems of their own. One limped, a dark shaft jutting from its shoulder, fur matted around it. The other paced just below the main terrace, ears flat, eyes flicking between his niche and movement upslope.

  The movement resolved as two figures stepped onto a jut of rock above, silhouettes cut sharp against grey sky.

  They were not wearing jeans and Carhartt.

  Layered leather and dark cloth hugged bodies that moved with the same balance the wolves had shown. One carried a short spear in a low, ready line. The other held a thick-limbed bow already half-drawn.

  They shouted to each other. The words meant nothing, but the cadence, call, answer, confirm, was as clear as any job-site exchange.

  The wounded wolf decided it had seen enough. It snapped once at the air in his direction, more promise than attack, then bolted for the tree line, limp barely slowing it. The uninjured one paced backward after, retreating in reluctant steps before vanishing into green.

  Two dead. Two retreating.

  Not a clean win. A negotiated one, the way gravity sometimes lets you have a bad ladder move without sending you to the ER.

  His arm throbbed with his heartbeat. The system's partial repair meant he wasn't spraying blood, but every finger flex brought a complaint from deep in the muscle.

  The hunters, because that was what they were, shifted focus. With the wolves gone, only one weird variable remained on the wall.

  Him.

  They spoke again, shorter now. The spear carrier gestured toward the niche, then downslope where the bodies had vanished. The other gave a sharp nod he could read even from here.

  Then they started down.

  They didn't blunder or skid. They came in angled steps, weight always over their feet, using holds he hadn't trusted.

  Stay hidden, something primitive whispered. They haven't seen you yet. Let them look at the blood and rocks and decide the wall ghosts did it.

  His ribs, arm, and burned-out muscles disagreed. If he tried to climb out of this hole alone, he was one bad foot placement from following the wolves.

  He'd also just killed two creatures that clearly weren't trivial work for the locals, judging by how many spears and arrows had flown. Walking away from the first people he'd seen since the road felt like telling the universe he liked his odds solo.

  The universe had been very clear that he was wrong about that.

  "Okay," he muttered. "Don't die. Don't spook the ones with weapons. Try not to bleed on their boots."

  He shifted, slow and deliberate, until he sat as upright as the niche allowed, good hand braced where they could see it. The motion dragged fire along every tendon in his chewed arm, but at least the worst of the dripping had stopped.

  Stone crunched just beyond the lip as the first hunter came into view.

  Up close, he was younger than expected, just under Matas's age, maybe 24 or 25. Dark hair tied back, skin roughened by wind and work, eyes wary and measuring, the kind he'd seen on foremen who'd fallen enough times to assume every surface held a grudge. A narrow strip of scaled hide reinforced one shoulder of his leathers.

  His gaze swept the niche: blood, broken stone, torn arm, rock on the floor, dead phone, Matas. Each item got a beat of the spear tip.

  One word, consonants hard, vowels short, snapping at the end.

  The mailbox flag twitched. Sound hit Matas's ears twice, once raw, and once with a flat, dubbed-over version trailing half a beat behind.

  Name?

  Pain flared behind his left eye, sharp as an ice pick.

  "Uh," he managed. "Matas."

  The man's eyes narrowed a fraction. He repeated it, Matas, slower, with a questioning lilt, tasting it.

  "Still don't speak that," Matas said. "Whatever that last bit was didn't come with a phrasebook."

  Behind the spear carrier, the second hunter stepped into view, bow low but not relaxed. Her gaze, he guessed her, though armor blurred it, made its own quick trip over him, then the scraped stone where the wolves had gone, then the gate.

  They traded another short exchange. His name did not feature. Neither did anything that sounded like welcome.

  He tried to let the weird dub ride their words again. Fragments bubbled up, wolves, gate, then dissolved into static as one of them picked up speed. The pain behind his eye climbed with every syllable.

  The mailbox flag pulsed once. No text. No verdict. Just quiet logging.

  "Right," he murmured. "Two wolves dead, two gone, one level, and now two very armed locals."

  He uncurled his left fingers and set the bloody rock down where they could see it. Slowly, so slowly it felt like a bad move would reset everything, he raised both empty hands.

  "Please," he said, not bothering to hide the shake in his voice. "Let's not test whatever 'combat data pending' means for people today."

  The spear tip dipped a hair. Not all the way. Just enough.

  Whatever came next, he wasn't out of danger.

  He was just out of wolves.