LANDON
The logs never lie.
Not openly.
They bend.
They omit.
They smooth over sharp edges.
But they never lie outright.
I sit at the long table in the operations room long after most of the pack has settled into uneasy sleep. Lantern light pools across parchment, turning ink strokes darker than they look in daylight. Gate entries. Patrol rotations. Supply approvals. All routine on the surface.
Too routine.
The human contact entry from earlier is clean. Name logged. Entry time precise. Exit time precise. Escort listed. Signature verified.
Nothing alarming.
And yet.
The timestamps between internal record access and gate approval sit too close together. Not suspicious alone. But when layered against previous nights, the pattern sharpens.
Subtle delay here.
Minor deviation there.
