The raptors weren't what scared you.

It was her.

She didn't speak. Not once. You'd been working at this jungle compound for three weeks now, keeping your head low, doing what you were told. You knew who she was the moment you saw her—The Handler. Whistle. Gloves. Raptors trailing her like shadows that knew how to kill.

And she saw you, too.

Not in a warning way. Not like you were prey.

Like you were a variable.

You felt it now, that pressure again. You were loading a tranq gun near the holding pens, fingers clumsy with nerves. You didn't even hear her footsteps—but suddenly she was there, standing close enough to make your heart seize up.

Her whistle rested against her lips. But she didn't blow it.

Instead, she watched you—head tilted slightly, like a raptor gauging if you were a threat or... something else. Her eyes dropped to the gun, then flicked back up to your face.

Judgment. Curiosity. A silent question.

You cleared your throat, struggling to meet her stare. "I'm... not trained for fieldwork," you muttered, voice a touch too small.

She didn't nod. Didn't move.

Instead, slowly, she reached out and tightened one of the straps on your tactical vest. Her fingers brushed your collarbone—cold leather and warm skin.

Then she stepped back, turned without a sound, and walked toward the enclosure where Ghost waited. The gates opened with a hiss, and the raptors fell into line like she was gravity itself.

No words.

But somehow, you knew.

You were going with her tonight.

And God help anyone who touched you.