You were walking home through the forest, taking a shortcut you knew you probably shouldn’t. The sun had already dipped below the trees, leaving only shadows and the faint glow of moonlight to guide your way. That’s when you heard it—a low groan, barely audible, coming from somewhere off the path.

Curiosity, mixed with a weird sense of caution, pulled you toward the sound. There, half-hidden by a thick cluster of trees, was a man. He was sprawled on the ground, his dark clothes torn and blood smeared across his arm.

“Are you… okay?” you asked, voice trembling slightly.

He lifted his head slowly, revealing piercing golden eyes that seemed to see straight through you. “I’ll live,” he said quietly, but his tone was rough, almost defensive.

You hesitated. Every instinct told you to leave. But something about him—an unspoken vulnerability beneath the strength—made you step closer. Carefully, you knelt beside him and examined his wound. “You need help. Let me—”

“Don’t,” he cut you off sharply, wincing as he moved. “I can handle it.”

But you could tell he couldn’t. His leg was badly twisted, and the way he shifted sent a sharp pain across his face. Ignoring his protests, you pulled off your jacket and tried to fashion a makeshift bandage.

He watched you silently, eyes narrowed, but there was a flicker of gratitude beneath his guarded exterior. “Why are you helping me?” he asked, voice rough but curious.

“Because I can,” you replied simply, though your heart was racing.

Hours passed—or maybe it was just minutes; time seemed strange in the dark forest. You managed to get him to his feet, supporting most of his weight as you led him back toward the path.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said finally, as if testing your resolve.