The fog thickened as it dropped down into the trees like wet wool, curling along the jungle floor and clinging to the undergrowth. Moonlight split through the canopy in fractured bands, too broken to guide, too sharp to comfort. The air was thick with damp soil and the bitter scent of twisted bark—warped deliberately by the woman crouched near the clearing's edge.
Sienna moved like she was adjusting scaffolding, not laying a trap. Each step was deliberate. A rock tilted here. A branch pulled just enough off-center there. Her breathing stayed steady, her eyes half-lidded, calm—not from peace, but from discipline. Her body hurt from lifting so much. She just didn't care. She had worked through worse on job sites with no food and a shattered wrist.
Pain was background noise. Irrelevant to the task.
