They cut across the yard to the riverfront walk — open air, railings, black water below. The city glowed on the opposite bank, a hundred windows they could not let that thing touch.

“Stay away from the rail,” Megan said. “Water’s a mirror tonight.”

But the path curved toward the river anyway — urban design did not care about Hunters — and the thing above them sped up.

It had figured out the rhythm of their bodies.

Every time Ryan lengthened his stride, it did. Every time Ethan ducked under a low pipe, it flattened. Every time Megan turned to check on Kyle, it flared, like it was marking the ones the others cared about most.

“Why is it matching us?” Kyle said. “They didn’t do that before.”

“Because this one saw the original clip,” Megan said. “It knows we move together.”

Ahead, the worst possible thing: a glass bus shelter on the river walk, lit from inside.

The Hunter pulsed.

“Dull it!” Ethan shouted.

“Range is too long,” Megan said. “I’d have to get right up on it.”

Ryan didn’t slow.

He angled toward the shelter like he meant to hit it. The Hunter committed — threw more of itself forward, eager to pour through the lit box and come out the other side with a real shape.

At the last second, Ryan slid — not through a portal, just a hard soccer slide on wet river concrete — and kicked the neutralizer out of his hand like a ball. It skittered low, hit the glass at shin height, and bloomed.

The shelter went dead.

The Hunter hit it anyway.

It was like watching black cloth slam into a wall it didn’t know was there — it buckled, spread, then dragged itself up the dead glass, furious but silent.

“That’s not gonna keep working,” Ethan said, backing up. “It’s learning the timing.”

“Yeah,” Ryan said, chest heaving. “So we stop running.”

He looked up the river path — long stretch, low walls, no more cover, and behind them a creature that only needed one good reflection to finish becoming real.