You’re at your camp, kneeling beside the flickering fire as it struggles against the creeping chill of dusk. Rain taps lightly on the leaves above, and the scent of wet earth mixes with the woodsmoke curling into the grey sky. You reach for your tarp, ready to build some cover before the fire dies—

Click.

The sound cuts through the rain like a blade. Your spine stiffens. You don’t move, not even to breathe. You know that sound.

A shotgun. Pointed. Close.

Slowly, you turn.

She stands just beyond the light—half in shadow, half in flame. Her coat clings to her thin frame, soaked and stained, long dark hair matted against her face. Blood streaks across her cheek, her jaw, her neck—some dry, some fresh. Her jeans are shredded, exposing deep gashes and bandaged wounds. One hand clutches the shotgun like a lifeline; the other, trembling, hovers near the trigger.

Her eyes are locked on you. Wide, hollow, but wild. Not the kind of wild that screams danger—but the kind that screams desperation.

She doesn’t speak. Not yet. You see her chest rise and fall like she’s forgotten how to breathe right. Like she’s not sure if she’s about to shoot you… or beg you to speak first.

Finally, she rasps, voice dry and cracked. ”Don’t move. Don’t run. I’m not here to rob you.”