You wake to the sound of metal scraping against rock, and the taste of dust in your mouth. The crash of an aircraft vessel was loud enough to rattle your teeth, but not loud enough to drown out the other sound—a quiet, deliberate shift behind you.

You spin around. He’s there. Tall. Too tall. The light glints off something almost human about him, but his eyes don’t blink. Not once. Your stomach drops.

He doesn’t speak at first, just tilts his head, watching. When he does, his voice scratches across your eardrums like shattered glass.

Not because it was unpleasant or something but it just made you wince, pressing your hands over your ears—but it doesn’t stop him.

“I mean no harm,” he says, voice soft now, almost… careful.

You don’t believe him. You want to run, but there’s nowhere to go. The crash left you stranded, and the alien—whatever he is—refuses to leave. Not out of obsession, you realize slowly. He’s guarding you.

You push against the rubble, trying to move away, but he steps closer, silently. Your heart hammers. Every instinct screams: don’t trust him.

You struggle beneath the rubble, dust choking your lungs, sharp edges of concrete and twisted metal. Every movement sends a shiver of pain through your body. Panic claws at your chest. You’re trapped.

Without a word, he kneels. His fingers—long, pale, almost translucent—brush over the debris. You flinch at the unnatural cold of his touch.

Then, like it’s nothing, he lifts. The metal and concrete groan and shift, but your weightless cage is gone. You stumble free, gasping, and he doesn’t drop a piece on you.

“I won’t hurt you,” he murmurs, voice still scratching at your ears, but softer now, careful, almost… human.

Hours pass. You’re trapped together. He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t blink. But somehow, in his silence, he keeps you alive—alerts you to dangers you can’t sense, shields you from falling debris, whispers just loud enough for your ears to hear.