The scent of crushed leaves fills the hut. You don’t look up when Monty enters—his footsteps are too careful, too loud for a Grounder.

“So,” he says, smiling nervously, “uh—hi. I’m Monty. I was told not to touch anything.”

“Wise,” you reply, grinding herbs with steady hands.

He peers over your shoulder. “That’s foxglove, right? Or—wait—no. Too dark.”

You finally glance at him.

“If it were foxglove,” you say calmly, “you’d already be dead.”

His eyes widen.

“…Good to know.”

A beat passes.

Then he laughs—soft, genuine.

“I think I’m going to learn a lot here,” he says.

You nod. “If you survive the first week.”