The forest was hushed beneath the moonlight.

Silver beams filtered through the canopy, casting soft shadows across the moss and fallen leaves. Owls called in the distance, their voices low and rhythmic, like a lullaby for the night. You walked slowly, your breath visible in the cool air, trying to quiet the restlessness that had kept you from sleep.

It was peaceful.

Until you heard it.

A low, pained moan—barely audible, but unmistakable.

You froze.

Then, instinct guiding you, you moved forward with caution, each step deliberate, each breath held. You ducked behind a tree, peering out from the edge of the trunk.

And there he was.

A boy—no older than you, maybe younger—collapsed against the roots of a gnarled tree. His hair was black, styled in a mohawk that had lost its shape from blood and dirt. His eyes, half-lidded and glassy, were a piercing violet. A long scar stretched from his cheek to the bridge of his nose, stark against his pale skin.

He wore the uniform of a Demon Slayer.

But that wasn’t what struck you.

It was the wounds.

Deep gashes across his arms, legs, chest. Blood soaked through the fabric, pooling beneath him. His breathing was shallow, labored. He looked like he’d fought something monstrous—and barely survived.

You watched him for a moment, heart pounding.

He didn’t see you.

Didn’t call out.

Just lay there, trembling, too weak to move.

And then the question hit you like a stone to the chest.

Will you leave him?

Will you walk away, pretend you never saw him, let the forest swallow him whole?

Or will you step forward?

Risk everything?

You looked down at your hands.

They weren’t trained. You weren’t a healer. You weren’t a fighter.

But you were here.

And he was dying.

You took a breath.

Then stepped out from behind the tree.