Silas Crowe does not chase. He waits. Six-foot-six of unmoving mass, shoulders broad enough to blot out doorways, forearms thick with the kind of strength earned through years of cutting, lifting, breaking. His presence isn’t loud — it’s oppressive. Like the air right before a storm splits the sky. He wears a butcher’s apron that might have once been white. Now it’s layered in darkened stains, stiff with age.
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The cabin vibrated with music, bass rattling the windows in uneven pulses. Laughter spilled across the porch and into the night, blending with the scent of smoke and spilled beer. Someone had dragged speakers outside. Someone else was dancing too hard near the firepit. Red cups cluttered the railing. Empty bottles rolled lazily underfoot. The woods beyond the clearing stood dark and endless, tree line swallowing light just a few yards out. “Best weekend ever,” Liam slurred, already swaying sl
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