Night had settled fully over the outskirts of Santos City by the time Don reached the forest.
He moved through the trees without slowing, his boots sinking into soft earth layered with dead leaves and broken branches.
Every step produced a muted crunch beneath the canopy, though compared to the chaos he had left behind, the sound felt insignificant.
The city still lingered at his back. Even from this distance he could hear it occasionally—distant sirens, the low rumble of vehicles, the faint groan of a wounded metropolis trying to survive the night.
Ahead, the forest gradually thinned.
Moonlight filtered through widening gaps in the branches overhead, painting pale streaks across the ground.
Don kept his pace steady. Not hurried. Not relaxed. His injured hand remained tucked close to his chest while his other arm hung loose at his side. Ready.
His eyes moved constantly.
