Chapter 8 Angie
ANGIE
Idon’t trust silence. Not out here. Silence in the Arctic doesn’t mean peace, it means something’s waiting, something’s holding its breath, and I can feel it in the way my skin prickles as I go through my gear.
I tell myself I’m only double-checking the footage, making sure my drones logged correctly after the storm. Really though, I’m looking for him.
I pull up the files on my laptop, breath fogging in the cold, fingers fumbling over the keys with my gloves still on.
Most of the footage is exactly what my producer asked for—ice sheets breaking, floes shifting, dogs running, my face red-cheeked from the wind as I narrate.
But then I see it again, that blurred frame that shouldn’t exist, man and bear folding into one outline.
I freeze with my finger hovering above the trackpad.
I whisper to myself because the sound steadies me. “It’s him. It has to be him.”
The edges of the image sharpen as the program auto-adjusts, and I suck in a breath when I see the gleam of eyes that glow faintly like fire through frost. The same eyes that pinned me to the snow this morning when he warned me off.
I bite my lip, half exhilarated, half terrified, and close the file fast, as if shutting the lid of a box that might bite. When the next window opens on its own, my heart sinks.
There’s a line of text in the corner I’ve never seen before, one that wasn’t there last week. Satellite uplink engaged. Sync active.
“No, no, no,” I mutter, scrambling to disconnect.
I dive into the settings, and sure enough, tucked deep inside the operating system is a new program running slick as oil, a quiet parasite.
My producer. He must have installed it in one of the last updates he pushed me.
Every single bit of footage has already been mirrored somewhere far away.
“God, Gordon, you snake,” I groan, pressing my palms to my forehead. “You just couldn’t trust me, could you?”
The air in the tent feels thinner suddenly, and I can’t shake the thought that the Syndicate—that’s what Cassian called them—already has my files. Already knows.
The dogs bark outside, sharp and uneasy, and I snap my head up. At first I think it’s him, my glacier in boots, coming back down the ridge, but then I hear voices. Too many.
I push out of the tent, boots crunching in the snow. Three men stand at the edge of camp, slick coats shining like they’ve never seen real labor, their smiles stretched too wide. One of them lifts a hand as if greeting an old friend.
“Morning, miss,” he calls. His accent is southern, but his vowels are off, like someone who learned to blend in by rote. “We were told you had some equipment. Specialized cameras. We’d like to take a look.”
My stomach twists. The wind carries the metallic tang of steel, faint but sharp, hidden under their coats. My hands curl at my sides. “You’re not researchers. Researchers don’t show up without notebooks or clipboards. They don’t smell like a gun locker.”
The man’s smile flickers, but he recovers quick. “We just need your gear. Won’t take long. You can keep your dogs, even your tent. Just hand over the cameras.”
I laugh, high and too bright, because fear is chewing at my ribs and I refuse to let them hear it. “That’s funny. Because my cameras are my life, and I don’t hand my life to three strangers who stroll into camp with smiles that don’t touch their eyes. So maybe try again.”
The tallest one steps forward, gloved hand stretching as if to pat my shoulder. I jerk back, my pulse kicking. “Stay where you are,” I snap, voice shaking but loud. “Or I swear I’ll—”
I don’t finish, because the air changes. Heavy, sharp, filled with something that doesn’t belong to the Syndicate or to me.
Cassian walks into the camp like he’s part of the storm itself, broad shoulders rolling under his coat, jaw hard, eyes lit faint and cold. The men stop moving, every one of them recognizing what walks toward them even if they don’t know his name.
“Leave,” he says, voice quiet but carrying like thunder across the snow.
The leader forces a laugh, nervous and brittle. “We’re just here for equipment. No trouble if she cooperates. Maybe you should walk along.”
Cassian doesn’t move fast. He doesn’t need to. He closes the distance like inevitability itself, each step steady, unhurried. His eyes never leave the man who spoke. “You won’t touch her.”
The second man twitches, hand dipping into his coat. Cassian’s arm shoots out before I can breathe, his fingers locking around the man’s wrist. A twist, a crack, and the weapon clatters to the snow. The man yelps, stumbling back as Cassian shoves him away like he weighs nothing.
The third one lunges, but Cassian meets him halfway. No frenzy, no roar, just precision. A shove to the chest that knocks the air from him, a sweep of his leg that puts him face-first in the snow, and then Cassian’s boot presses lightly but firmly against the man’s back.
The leader’s bravado shatters. He pulls a knife, holds it out with both hands trembling. “Stay back. We’ll go, just—stay back.”
Cassian doesn’t blink. His hand shoots forward, plucking the knife from trembling fingers like taking a toy from a child. He breaks the blade in two with a single motion and lets the shards fall at the man’s feet.
“Go,” Cassian says, voice low, final. “Before I change my mind.”
The men scatter, dragging their wounded companion, slipping on ice in their rush to escape. Their voices fade into the white, swallowed by the horizon.
The camp goes still. My dogs whine softly, their tails tucked, but their eyes stay fixed on him as if they already know he is the only thing keeping this place standing.
I can’t breathe for a moment, chest tight as I stare at him. He isn’t panting. He isn’t even winded. He fought with no waste, no wildness, no snapping frenzy. Every move was exact, as if he’s done it a hundred times, as if it’s carved into his bones.
I whisper, half to myself. “You’re not a monster. You’re… you’re a man carrying something you can’t set down.”
His eyes cut to me, sharp and unreadable. He doesn’t answer. He just turns away, shoulders rigid, as if walking is the only thing keeping him from breaking apart.
I want to run after him, to grab his arm, to demand he explain, but the words stick in my throat.
Because I finally understand—he isn’t dangerous because he’s out of control.
He’s dangerous because he has never once lost it, because every snarl, every growl, every strike is held on a leash only he can feel.
And I know, as I watch him disappear into the white, that the footage I thought was proof is nothing compared to what I’ve just seen with my own eyes.