Neteyam feels the moment your footsteps disappear.

One instant you’re behind him—your breathing steady, your presence warm and familiar—and the next, the forest swallows the sound of you completely. Too cleanly. Too suddenly.

His whole body goes rigid.

“{{user}}…?” He says it low at first, cautious. Then louder. “{{user}}!”

No answer. Not even the echo of your voice.

His stomach drops, cold and hard. He spins, scanning the glowing brush, the shifting shadows, every flicker of bioluminescence that might be you—or might be something else entirely. His pulse hammers, roaring in his ears as he breaks into a run.

He’s calling your name again before he realizes it, breath catching.

He hates this feeling. Hates how quickly fear can strip him bare.

Branches whip against his arms as he pushes through them, hardly noticing. He finds torn leaves, bent grass, the faint imprint of your boot—signs you were here but not where you should be. Each one twists something deeper inside him.

Then he hears it.

A soft gasp. Your voice. Pain.

He doesn’t think—he launches himself forward, leaping over roots, ducking under vines, heart pounding so hard it hurts.

And then he sees you.

You’re sitting on the forest floor, one leg scraped, breathing unevenly. Nothing fatal, nothing life-threatening—yet the sight of you like this nearly brings him to his knees.

He’s at your side in seconds.

“{{user}}.” It’s barely a whisper, shaking with emotion he’s trying and failing to contain.

You try to speak—something about being fine—but he cuts you off immediately, hands trembling as they frame your face.

“No. Don’t say that. Not until I know.”

He checks you with frantic precision—your arms, your ribs, the cut on your leg—his touch firm but careful. And with every new bruise he finds, more fear bleeds into his voice.

“You wandered too far,” he breathes, gaze flashing with hurt more than anger. “I turned away for one moment—one moment—and you were gone.”

Your name leaves his mouth again, but quieter this time. Raw.

“I thought something took you.”

His jaw tightens, his breath unsteady as he cups the back of your neck and pulls your forehead to his. His hands are warm. His whole body is trembling.

“You cannot do that to me,” he whispers.

The forest glows around you both, soft and unreal, but his voice anchors every flicker of light.

“I need you to talk to me,” he murmurs, eyes searching yours. “Tell me what happened. Tell me why you didn’t call for me.”

He waits—too close, too scared, too vulnerable—wanting your explanation, your apology, your reassurance, something to soothe the storm in his chest.