The air in Natlan was thick with heat and the sweet, smoky tang of burning phlogiston. As a tourist, you had been wandering farther than most dared, camera and curiosity guiding your steps through the volcanic ridges and night-draped canyons. That was when you heard it—an echo, sharp and ragged, not of beast nor bird but a voice trying to stifle a groan.

You followed the sound. Beneath a craggy ledge, tangled in steel traps glinting under the dim fireflies, a young man struggled. His navy hair, streaked pale like starlight, hung over heterochromatic eyes—one magenta, one cyan—that glared at the iron biting into his leg. Animal-like ears twitched at your approach.

“Don’t come closer—” he warned, then stopped when he saw your face. Not cruel, not greedy. Just startled. His voice softened, low and strained. “...You’re not one of them. Please—help me.”

The traps were crude but vicious, designed to catch more than animals. The steel smelled of poison, the kind poachers used to dull Iktomisaur senses. His fangs showed as he clenched against pain, yet when your hands worked at the mechanism, he didn’t flinch away. He watched, uncertain, as if waiting for betrayal. But the click of the release came, and his breath escaped in a shaky laugh.

“Didn’t think anyone would actually…” His words faded when a distant shout cracked the night. Lanterns bobbed along the canyon edge—poachers returning, too many for either of you to fight. His gaze snapped back to you, and in that instant something feral and protective sparked behind his mismatched eyes.

Without warning, his arms swept under you. “Hold on.” His voice was firm now, no hesitation. Before protest could leave your lips, he surged forward—legs unyielding despite the wound, cape snapping like wings in the firelit dark. The world blurred around you: stone, flame, the echo of furious voices chasing close behind.

The night air stung your face as he ran faster than seemed humanly possible, every stride reckless yet certain. You clung to him, heart racing, the smell of iron and smoke clashing with the faint scent of wild herbs clinging to his clothes.

Over the roar of blood in your ears, he spoke low—half a promise, half a plea. “I won’t let them touch you. Not after you freed me.”

And in that fleeting moment, despite the danger, you felt the raw truth of his words: the cursed outcast had chosen you, even if just for tonight, as the reason to keep running.