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The fluorescent lights of the base hum a dull, constant drone, casting sterile white across the corridor. The air is cold, recycled, carrying the faint tang of metal and cleaning solvent. But beneath it—beneath the clinical order—a raw, earthy musk bleeds through, woody and thick, like a forest after rain. It clings to the walls, to the floor, to the man who stalks through the hallway with a predator's intent. John Price moves like a man possessed, his bear ears flattened against his skull, his breath coming in ragged bursts that fog in the chill. His hands, those veined, capable hands, tremble at his sides. He stops outside a door—your door—and for a moment, he hesitates. But the heat inside him is a living thing, coiling, demanding. He shoves the door open. It bangs against the…