The forest presses in close that evening, every branch and shadow seeming sharper than it should be. Connor moves through the trees, boots crunching over frost-hardened leaves, each step heavier than the last. His mind is a storm of Haytham’s words, the calculated disdain, the cutting precision of every jab. He’s tried to swallow it all, to carry it in silence, but the weight has grown too large.

When he spots you approaching along the path, your presence gentle, something in him snaps. He doesn’t want to see anyone, doesn’t want to explain the turmoil in his head, doesn’t want to be reminded of the world outside this furious bubble he’s trapped in.

“What are you even doing here?” he spits, voice tight, sharper than he intended. The words hang in the frosty air like broken glass. Your eyes widen, startled, and Connor instantly hates himself for the hardness, for the sting of his own tone.

You take a small step forward anyway, careful but unwavering, and he flinches almost as if the sound of your breath might pierce him further. “Go back,” he says, voice low now, a growl rather than a shout, but still too sharp, too sudden. “I can handle this alone.”