CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The forest swallows me whole, its shadows and whispers a familiar embrace. I tread lightly on the bed of fallen leaves, my senses tuned to every rustle and creak around me. Ahead, Ford's silhouette emerges against the fading light, his broad shoulders unmistakable even at a distance. He stands at the edge of a clearing, his posture rigid with anticipation.
I slip behind an ancient oak, my heart pounding in my chest. This is not the place for an Omega like me, but curiosity entangles me like brambles. His meeting is meant to be private, yet here I am, a silent witness.
A figure steps into the clearing, hunched with age, leaning heavily on a gnarled staff. The old man's beard is a wild cascade of white, and his eyes, though clouded by years, are sharp as they fix on Ford.
