The air in the mountains was colder than it should have been.

Mist rolled down the ridges like breath, swallowing the path ahead. The A.R.C. convoy crawled along the narrow dirt road until the engines fell silent one by one. Beyond the last bend, the forest was still.

“Teams A through D, fan out. Keep your radios clear,” the squad leader ordered. “Any sign of habitation, you report first. Nobody engages until we confirm structure stability.”

Ed adjusted the strap on his gear pack, the static in his earpiece breaking through the wind.  

Monna’s voice came softly over the channel. “Signal’s weak, but holding. Stay close.”

They advanced through the pines, boots crunching over frost and dead leaves. After nearly two hours of searching, a low call came through the comm.

“Team C to command. We’ve got eyes on a cabin. Visual confirmation of human activity.”

The squads stopped instantly.  

Ed looked at Monna, and she nodded once. “That’s our cue.”

They moved faster now, climbing over damp roots until they reached a narrow ridge. The fog parted briefly, and there it was.

A **small wooden cabin**, half-hidden among the trees, its roof damp with moss.  

Smoke rose lazily from a thin metal chimney. Beside it, stacked neatly, was a pile of freshly cut logs.

Through binoculars, Ed saw movement—  

an **old man**, gray-bearded and stooped, stepped out from the door carrying an axe.

He shuffled toward the woodpile and began splitting logs, methodically, each strike sharp and deliberate.  

Every swing echoed too clearly through the still air.

“Human presence confirmed,” a scout whispered. “Could be a local. Orders?”

The command channel crackled. Director Barek Joseph’s voice came through, distorted but firm.  

“Hold position. No approach until structural verification is complete.”

Ed watched the man work, each motion strangely mechanical—same rhythm, same breath, no hesitation.

He frowned. “He doesn’t look… right.”

Monna handed him her scope. “Look at his hands.”

Through the lens, Ed saw it—the man’s hands were perfectly clean. No dirt, no calluses. The axe’s blade gleamed like new steel, though the handle was worn.

“That’s not someone who lives here,” Monna said quietly. “That’s something *pretending* to.”

Just then, a drone operator nearby muttered, “Satellite feed coming in.”

The handheld monitor flickered to life, showing a heatmap overlay. The coordinates of the cabin glowed red.  

The operator frowned. “Wait… that can’t be right.”

“What?” asked Monna.

He zoomed out.  

“According to this, there wasn’t any structure here—nothing—on the last geological scan. Not last week, not even last month. This area was blank forest.”

The leader stared at the feed. “You’re sure?”

“Positive. That thing… appeared recently. Maybe days ago.”

Silence fell over the line.

Then Joseph’s voice returned.  

“Confirmation received. Structure designation: **Anomalous Entity ARC-043**. Classification: Potentially Sentient Construct. All teams stand by for containment directive.”

Monna exhaled slowly, tension creeping back into her shoulders. “So it *is* one of ours.”

“Looks that way,” Ed said quietly. “But what about the man?”

As if in answer, the old man stopped mid-swing. The axe hung motionless in the air.

He turned his head—not toward the woods, not at the sound of the drones—but **directly toward them.**

Ed felt the breath catch in his throat. “He sees us?”

“Impossible,” one of the scouts muttered. “We’re half a kilometer out—”

The old man smiled faintly.  

Then he raised the axe—not to strike the wood, but to wave.

A small, polite wave.

Every radio crackled at once. “All teams, full containment protocol! Drones, switch to thermal scan! Secure the perimeter, nobody breaks visual!”

From the base camp miles away, containment transports began to move—  

vehicles marked with the black A.R.C. sigil rumbling up the valley roads.

Monna lowered her binoculars slowly. “Well, rookie,” she said under her breath, “looks like we found our monster.”

But as she spoke, the fog thickened again, swallowing the cabin from view.

When it cleared a few seconds later, the old man was gone.

Only the axe remained—standing upright in the woodpile, as if waiting for the next hand to take it.