He should have turned back at the fallen oak. Should have listened when the wind stopped. Instead, he counted.

Wild 3 isn't a place. It's a promise.

He ran. He always runs now. But every night, in the corner of his room, three shadows move when there's only one light.

One mile: the trees grew teeth.

Three miles: Leo met something that had been waiting since before names meant anything. It didn't speak. It just pointed back the way he came, with three fingers held up.

Two miles: the sky forgot its color.

They called it the Wild 3 —not a place, but a rule.