The note burned in my mind more than the actual fire had.
"Next time, it will be blood."
Forty-eight hours since the arson. Forty-eight hours of waiting for the other shoe to drop. Forty-eight hours of watching every shadow, questioning every face, knowing the infiltrator was among us and feeling completely powerless to stop them.
Campus had that brittle quality. Like glass stretched too thin. One more tap and everything would shatter.
Students moved through their routines with forced normalcy. Attending classes. Training. Eating in the cafeteria. But their eyes tracked exits. Their wolves stayed closer to the surface. Trust had fractured in ways that protocol and reassurance couldn't repair.
Gideon understood psychological warfare better than I'd given him credit for. He wasn't just attacking infrastructure. He was attacking the foundation of what held a pack together—the belief that leadership could keep them safe.
