The wild did not sleep.
It hunted.
Nikolai slithered through the wreckage, ribs on fire, every breath a knife. The ground beneath him was uneven-- broken chunks of highway buckled from old impacts, vines crawling through the cracks like veins. He kept
his profile low, crawling beneath twisted guardrails and the carcasses of rusted vehicles, their frames creaking
softly as wind ghosted through them.
Behind him, the skeletal ruin of the overpass still loomed, swallowed in shadow. Smoke from the earlier fight
hung faint in the cold air, mixing with the iron scent of blood. The mutt's body lay somewhere behind the
debris, broken and still -- but not forgotten.
A voice -- ragged, too close -- called out behind him.
"Saw something!"
He froze.
Footsteps thundered above. Gravel scattered down from the edge of the slope, bouncing off a crumpled road
sign.
He pressed against a wall of slanted concrete and rebar, the cold seeping through his coat. His hand curled
around his knife.
Don't. Don't turn. Don't breathe.
Another bootstep. Closer.
Then -- silence.
They hadn't seen him.
A growl. The sound of someone spitting. Then retreating steps, crunching over broken glass and loose stone.
Nikolai didn't wait.
He moved deeper along the edge of the ruins, slipping past the corpse of a burned-out sedan -- the same one
he'd slumped against earlier. It still reeked of oil and blood. Every shadow felt like it watched him.
His limbs ached with every motion, but he kept going -- too wired to stop, too tired to care.
He kept low, slipping into the skeletal remains of what had once been a multi-level parking structure.
Half-collapsed, open to the air, vines curling in through shattered beams. It offered cover -- barely. But it was
enough.
He crouched behind a cement pillar and finally exhaled.
When the last echo of boots faded into silence, he slumped against the pillar, his body trembling from cold,
pain, and the comedown of adrenaline. He could feel his heartbeat in his teeth. Muscles screamed. His side
throbbed with every breath.
He stayed there for minutes that felt like hours, just breathing. Just existing.
Somehow, he survived.
Then, groaning softly, he pulled himself to his feet.
He needed to move. Needed to rest. The ferals might return. And his body -- battered and bleeding -- wasn't
going to carry him much farther unless he found shelter soon.
He trudged forward, each step heavy with fatigue and instinct.
Step after aching step, deeper into the wilderness. He passed crumbling roads, overturned trucks, and
weather-worn signs almost buried in vines.
Eventually, as the sky began to pale, he saw a faint ribbon of smoke curling up in the distance.
A house.
Still standing. Smoke meant warmth. Fire. Someone cooking -- or someone who still called this place home.
His stomach clenched at the thought of food. His legs moved on their own.
He walked toward the house.
Out here, in the wildlands, you didn't trust people. Not unless you wanted to disappear. But hunger was louder
than paranoia, and exhaustion louder still. He was too tired to be careful -- but not too stupid to forget where
he was.
He approached the door slowly, keeping his hand near his belt where the knife hung.
He knocked. Once. Then again, firmer.
"Hello?" he called out, voice hoarse. "Is someone here?"
For a long moment, there was nothing. Just wind through the trees, the creak of old wood somewhere behind
the walls. He was about to step back when the door opened.
A woman stood in the threshold.
She looked... normal. Pale, maybe. Thin. Her dark hair was tied back, her clothes clean but worn -- the kind
passed down through years, patched with care.
"Well now\... that's a rare sound these days," she said, as though a knock on the door were the most ordinary
thing in the world. She studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable, then softened. "You poor thing."
"Come in. You look half-dead."
Her smile was gentle. Her tone, warm. She stepped aside and gestured into the house.
Nikolai hesitated.
Then hunger moved his feet.
He stepped inside.
And as the door clicked shut behind him, something shifted.
Her smile faded. Not abruptly -- not enough to notice outright -- but the light behind it dimmed. Her shoulders
straightened a little too precisely. The quiet in the room changed pitch.
She turned to face him, and though her expression remained soft, it no longer invited trust. Her face hadn't
changed -- not really -- but the warmth in her eyes was gone.