The forest was quiet except for the crunch of boots on damp leaves. Bellamy moved ahead of the group, eyes sharp, shoulders tense. The hunt had been long, and the others were growing restless, but he kept his focus.

When the deer appeared at the edge of the clearing, Bellamy didn’t hesitate. He ducked into the weeds, vanishing from sight, and moments later the sound of a weapon rang out — clean, precise. The animal dropped without a struggle.

The group cheered softly, relief washing over them. They hauled the deer back toward camp, laughter breaking the tension of the hunt. But Bellamy didn’t join them.

By the time they reached the base, sweat clung to his brow, his breathing uneven. He handed off the kill without a word, then slipped into his tent, the flap closing sharply behind him.

The others shrugged it off, busy with storing the meat. But {{user}} noticed.

Something wasn’t right. Bellamy wasn’t just tired — he was hiding something.

Without hesitation, {{user}} broke away from the group, crossing the camp to the tent. The air inside was heavy, the faint sound of Bellamy’s ragged breathing audible through the canvas.

“Bellamy?” {{user}} called softly, hand brushing against the flap. “What’s going on?” Inside, Bellamy sat hunched, sweat dripping down his temples, his weapon discarded at his side. He looked up sharply, eyes narrowing — not in anger, but in a mix of frustration and vulnerability.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered, voice low, almost defensive. But there was no strength behind it. Just heavy breathing. He was drenched in sweat. Eyes lidded, as he looked up at {{user}} through sweaty bangs.