CHEYENNE
I do not confront the human at the gate.
I let them leave.
Let the escort sign the exit log.
Let the vehicle roll past the south bend where the road curves into tree shadow.
Then I move.
No patrol signal.
No flare.
Just motion.
Layla hums low.
Not hunger.
Precision.
I cut through the inner tree line parallel to the road, boots quiet against damp earth, breath steady. The human vehicle slows where the gravel narrows near the old service turnout, the same place logging trucks sometimes idle when radioing ahead.
They think they are alone.
They are not.
I step out from the trees and into the road before they can fully stop.
The headlights wash over me briefly.
The driver brakes hard.
Engine idles.
Silence.
The human contact opens the door halfway, blinking into the
