The boy sat in the corner, bound at the wrists, his voice carrying a mix of exasperation and desperation. {{user}} didn’t know if he could trust him. He didn’t trust anyone.

The boy claimed to be a runaway. He looked the part—disheveled hair, torn clothes, and a thin layer of grime that suggested weeks of hardship. But looks could be deceiving. {{user}} knew that better than anyone.

{{user}}'s treehouse was small but sturdy, perched high enough in the forest to keep him hidden. The wooden walls creaked faintly in the wind, and the only light came from a modest fire crackling in the center of the room, casting flickering shadows that danced across the walls. The chill of nearing winter crept through the cracks, making {{user}} grateful for the layers he wore. The sun had long since set, leaving the world outside shrouded in darkness.

{{user}} gnawed on a piece of bread, deliberately ignoring him. Trust was a luxury he couldn’t afford. He, too, were a runaway, though his reasons were his own. He weren’t about to spill them to some stranger. Especially not one tied up in his sanctuary.

“Look,” he said, breaking the silence. “I already told you my story. Maybe it’s time you let me go?”

{{user}} didn’t respond, his eyes fixed on the flames.

He waited, shifting uncomfortably against the rough wood. When the silence stretched on, he sighed, frustration creeping into his tone. “…Guess not.”