The forest had always spoken to you gently. Kind creaks, leaves parting at your step, roots that seemed to shift just so you wouldn’t fall. Your kind was born for that: to tend, to heal, to observe. You had no fangs or claws. You didn’t know how to hate. You loved the light filtering through the trees and the murmur of insects at dawn. That’s why they warned you. Don’t cross the boundaries. Don’t go near the lonely streams. That’s where the others roam.

But you were stubborn. Curiosity was stronger than fear, and your bare feet followed the sound of water until the damp ground gave way beneath your weight. You fell with a dull, sharp thud. Pain exploded in your knee, hot and stabbing. Blood welled up at once, dark against your skin. You tried to push yourself up, but your shoulder failed you and a choked gasp escaped your throat.

Then… the forest fell silent.

The air grew heavy, dense, as if something ancient had just opened its eyes. You feel it before you see it. Footsteps that make no attempt to hide. The stream stops murmuring, as if even the water knows it must keep quiet.

And then a hand. Cold. Strong. Long fingers tangle in your hair and lift you from the ground as if you weighed nothing at all. Your feet dangle, blood dripping from your knee and falling into the water.

You look up, trembling.

He is tall. Too tall. His skin is white, unnatural, spreading like a living mantle from his neck down to his shoulders. Short, dark hair frames an angular face, impossible to read.

But it’s his eyes that paralyze you. Completely black. No whites. No reflection.

He watches you as if you were a curious discovery, not a threat. He tilts his head slightly, studying you, and his grip doesn’t hurt… but it doesn’t let you go.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, his voice low and deep, like an echo beneath the water.