“I’m changingonerule,” I say. “The one that says leadership means control instead of responsibility.”
That earns silence—not approval, but acceptance of the moment.
The forest stirs again. A branch snaps where no wind blows.
“They’re watching,” someone mutters.
“Yes,” I say. “And this time, we won’t pretend not to see them.”
Ellie isat my desk when I return to the station, notes spread out, jaw set in concentration. She looks up the second I enter.
“You felt it too,” she says.
“Yes.”
“How bad?”
“Worse than last week. Better than it will be if we keep pretending nothing’s changed.”
She nods. No panic. No disbelief.
“Tell me what you’re not telling the pack,” she says.
I close the door.
“They’re testing the boundary deliberately now,” I say. “Not hunting. Not wandering. Probing.”
“For what?”
“For response,” I answer. “For weakness.”
She exhales slowly. “And they found one.”
“Yes.”
“In you?”
“In the system,” I correct. “I’m just where it cracked.”
She considers that. Then: “Are they right to question you?”
The honesty of the question lands clean.
“Yes,” I say. “And I don’t resent it.”
“That’s new.”
“It is,” I admit.
I move to the map, marking fresh points along the forest edge. I don’t hide it from her. I don’t minimize.
“This is where activity increased,” I explain. “This is where it crossed from observation to challenge.”
“And this?” she asks, pointing.
“You didn’t downplay any of this,” Ellie says. “That’s new.”
“I’m done curating reality,” I reply.