The Hunter

A figure tackled him.

Kenji hit the moss hard, the air driven from his lungs. He instinctively threw his arms up to protect his face, expecting teeth or a knife.

"Idiot!" a voice hissed.

A hand clamped over his mouth. He blinked, staring up into a face smeared with mud and charcoal.

It was Maya.

She looked wild. Her dark hair was matted, tied back with a strip of cloth. Her eyes were wide, the whites stark against the camouflage paint on her skin. She wasn't wearing hiking gear; she was wearing dark, nondescript clothing that blended perfectly with the shadows.

She pressed a finger to her lips, her eyes darting to the tree line.

"Quiet," she breathed. "Or you're dead."

Kenji nodded against her palm. She slowly released him, rocking back on her heels but staying low.

"Maya," Kenji whispered, relief washing over him so intensely he felt dizzy. "You're alive. The police said... they said you came here to..."

"To kill myself?" Maya scoffed, though her voice was barely audible. She pulled a knife from her boot and sheathed it at her hip. "Please. I'm working, Kenji. And you just stomped through my perimeter like a tourist."

"Working?" Kenji sat up, wiping leaf litter from his jacket. "You sent me a photo. A goodbye photo."

"I sent you a 'Plan B' photo," she corrected. "I told my editor if I went dark for 72 hours, to send that image to you. I figured if anyone could navigate this godforsaken magnet-trap to find me, it was the man who memorizes topographical maps for fun."

"You used me as an insurance policy?" Kenji asked, his voice rising.

"Shh!" Maya grabbed his collar and yanked him down. "Listen to me. I am not camping. I am hunting."

"Hunting what?"

"They call him the Jukai Wolf," Maya whispered. "Three months ago, a string of bodies turned up near the caves. The police ruled them suicides. Standard procedure for Aokigahara. But I saw the autopsy photos. The ligature marks were wrong. The angles were wrong. Someone is out here, Kenji. Someone is finding the lost souls who come here to die, and he’s helping them along. And stealing their wallets."

Kenji stared at her. "A serial killer? You're tracking a serial killer alone in a forest with no cell service?"

"I had him," Maya said, frustration leaking into her tone. "I’ve been tracking his movements for two days. He uses the lava tubes to move unseen. I was setting up a blind to catch him on video when you started yelling my name."

"We are leaving," Kenji said firmly. "Now. I have a satellite phone. We walk back to the trail, we call the police, and we let them handle the Wolf."

"The police won't come in here past dusk," Maya said. "And he moves at night. If I leave now, he disappears."

"Maya, look at you!" Kenji gestured to her gaunt face. "You haven't slept. You're dehydrated. This is... this is exactly why I couldn't do it anymore. You don't calculate risk. You just jump."

Maya’s expression hardened. "And you don't take risks. You just calculate. That's why you're alive, Kenji. And it's why you're boring."

The insult landed with a dull thud. Kenji opened his mouth to retort, to tell her that 'boring' was the reason he was the one holding the rescue line, but a sound stopped him.

* Crunch.*

It was the sound of a heavy boot breaking a dry branch.

It didn't come from the trail. It came from above them, on the ridge of volcanic rock overlooking the hollow.

Maya froze. Her eyes locked onto Kenji’s. The anger vanished, replaced by cold professionalism.

She signaled with her hand: *Down.*

They flattened themselves against the roots of the Dragon’s Tail.

A silhouette appeared on the ridge.

It was a man, but he looked like a heap of refuse. He wore layers of mismatched clothing—a oversized trench coat, a woman’s scarf, heavy work boots. Trophies taken from the dead. He carried a long, curved machete that looked rusted but sharp.

He stood perfectly still, sniffing the air.

He looked down into the hollow. He couldn't see them beneath the overhang of the roots, but he could see something else.

Kenji’s pink trail ribbon, tied to a branch ten feet away. It fluttered cheerfully in the stagnant air.

The Wolf grunted. He hopped down from the ridge. He didn't move like a man; he moved with a disjointed, fluid grace, absorbing the impact in his knees.

He walked to the ribbon. He ripped it down.

Then he turned and looked directly at the root hollow.