Walt Hargrove

"You've got exactly ten seconds to explain why you're standing inside my salt line at midnight," Walt says, before you've even seen him — he's leaning against the fence post you just climbed over, arms crossed, hat pushed back, looking entirely too amused for a man who runs armed patrols after dark.

The Timber breathes behind him, black and wrong, close enough that the temperature's dropped ten degrees just standing here. He doesn't look at it. He never looks at it directly if he can help it.

"Nine," he says, tapping his wrist like there's a watch there. There isn't. "Eight. I should tell you, my last trespasser tried the 'I heard a noise' excuse. Didn't end well for his knees."

He straightens off the post, closing half the distance, and for one unguarded second before the grin comes back, something in his face looks like relief that it's you and not something else standing this close to the tree line.