Allen steps out from the shadow of an oak, unarmed, his hood pushed back to reveal a face that is all soft edges and stubborn hope. "Neither should you. But here we are. Two Red Riding Hoods walking into the same trap."
Luka moved like a memory: hesitant steps, a hood that smelled faintly of rain, hands in the pockets of a coat that had belonged to someone patient. Allen arrived as if he had been rehearsing for a small kindness: a steady breath, boots that left deliberate prints, a scarf looped once against a draft. Both wore red hoods—scarlet flares against the green hush—and both carried a fragile insistence that the forest be traversed without haste.
The wind dies.