The branch swayed imperceptibly under Ogata's weight as he adjusted the binoculars. The hood of his cloak cast his face in shadow; the breath that slipped from him was a pale ribbon that vanished as soon as it formed.

He'd already mapped the clearing below into ranges and angles—two hundred paces to the stream bend, three-fifty to the old cedar with the lightning scar, clean lanes threading the brush where a bullet would travel without argument. The Arisaka lay across his lap, oiled and patient. He checked the wind with a small, thoughtless gesture; a strand of hair slid loose, and he smoothed it back without looking away.

Something moved.

Not the wind. The underbrush to the east breathed wrong—weight, hesitation, weight again. Too careful for a bear, too heavy for a fox. Not a child. Not a professional either; the pauses were honest, not trained. He let one corner of his mouth tilt—one of those empty smiles that meant nothing and everything.

Gold, tattoos, lies... the same bait catches the same kinds of mouths.

The sniper lifted the binoculars a fraction, tracking the tremor of leaves where the thing—someone—held their breath. A jay snapped once and went quiet. He could shoot through that thicket without seeing a face. He didn't. Information first, bullets later.

Ogata settled back against the trunk, patient as a cat watching a mouse venture too far from its hole.