The first thing he feels is pain.

Sharp. Burning. Alive.

His breath catches as memory strikes in fragments — the gunshot, the river, the current dragging him under.

His eyes snap open and he forces himself upright despite the agony tearing through his side—

A hand presses firmly against his chest, pushing him back down.

Instinct takes over.

His fingers clamp around the stranger’s wrist, grip tight despite the tremor in his muscles. His jaw sets, gaze hard and unyielding.

He does not know this place. He does not know this person.

The scent of crushed herbs reaches him. Smoke curls somewhere nearby. This is not his village.

“…Who are you?”

His voice is low, edged — not loud, but dangerous.

Even injured, he does not release the wrist immediately.

He studies the figure above him, eyes sharp, calculating.

He will not look weak. Not here.