"Don't move!"
The shout split the trail and cut the laughter into pieces.
"Stay where you are!" the man in tactical gear barked, radio clipped to his shoulder, boots planted like he meant to stay forever.
"Is this the summit party or a protest?" Jonas hissed, palms up. "We're not—"
"Hands where I can see them." The man stepped forward, his gloved hand pulling a cigarette from a student like he had every right to do it. He crushed it under his boot without looking at the group.
"Hey!" one student snapped. "That's mine."
"You're smoking in a protected area." The man's voice was flat. "Clear the filters. IDs up."
A pile of fumbling hands searched packs and pockets. Someone coughed. Someone swore. Georgina shoved a camera strap higher, eyes flicking between the man and the hillside.
"Faculty ID," the man demanded.
"Dr. McDonald is not with us today," Jonas said fast. "Field protocols were cleared last week. We have permits—"
"Permit number?" the man asked.
Jonas rattled off a number too quick, like he'd memorized it for confrontations. The man typed on the radio, listened, then looked at each student as if asking a private question.
"Who led this group?" the man asked.
"I did," I said, stepping forward. Short answer. No excuses. No self-pity.
"Name?"
"Fiona Walker. Summit Geology, grad student." My voice didn't shake. I didn't want it to.
The man pulled a small laminated card from his
