"Who are you?" I spat the question, and my voice cracked like gravel. "You are safe—stay still," the voice answered. It was low and measured, with a weight that made my limbs obey for a second before pain screamed louder. "Safe?" I tried to pull up. Pain stopped the motion. My ankle burned. My ribs were a tight band. The world tilted. White light hung above me like a ceiling I couldn't climb. I blinked and found hands—big, callused, careful—covering my shoulders. "Don't move," the hand said. "Tell me if you need to breathe." "I need to get out," I said. My tongue tasted metal. "Who brought me here? Why—" "We found you," he said. He didn't say it like a question. He said it like an order to the world. There were other voices at the edge of my hearing: soft, clipped, then a bark of displeasure that wasn't human. A smell hit me—pine, wet earth, an animal musk that made me remember a different kind of danger. "Alpha," a guard said. His English had a clipped rhythm. "This human—" "Do not call her that yet," the Alpha interrupted in English that was crisp and controlled. "Sit." "Alpha?" The guard's tone sharpened. "She fell by the cliff. The town—" "Check the perimeter," the Alpha said. One syllable, final. "Marta, focus on me. Tell me your name." My name sounded strange in my own mouth. "Marta Maeda," I said. My voice