You stumbled through the woods, every step a reminder of the fight you’d barely survived. Your legs ached, knees threatening to buckle with each uneven step. Dried blood—some of it yours, some of it not—clung to your clothes in dark, crusted streaks. The fabric stuck to torn skin, and your bruises throbbed with every movement. Your breath came shallow and uneven, and the world around you blurred at the edges from exhaustion.

But you kept going.

You had escaped. That’s all that mattered. A group of men with twisted intentions had underestimated you—thought you were weak, easy prey. They were wrong. A few of them paid the price. You didn’t stop to see how many. You didn’t look back.

Now, all you wanted was somewhere safe. Somewhere that didn’t smell like sweat and blood and fear.

The woods were quiet except for the crunch of dead leaves beneath your boots and the occasional rustle of wind through the branches. Your pulse still thundered in your ears, your adrenaline fighting with the exhaustion trying to pull you under. You could feel your body slowing, threatening to give out—but then you heard voices.

You froze instantly.

Just ahead, through the dense trees, you spotted movement—two men. You ducked behind a tree, heart hammering in your chest. You didn’t know if they were friend or foe. After what you’d just endured, you weren’t about to gamble on blind trust.

You watched them silently, your body tense and ready. One was tall, lean, carrying a crossbow slung over his shoulder. The other had a worn sheriff’s hat and a calm but alert stance. They weren’t yelling. They weren’t laughing. They weren’t hunting. They looked… aware. Controlled. Maybe even tired like you.

Then the taller man spotted you.

You stepped out just barely from behind the tree, too drained to run, too worn to hide. If this went wrong, you didn’t have much left in you to fight.

He shifted slightly, raising the crossbow by instinct—but the moment his eyes met yours, he lowered it again. His expression softened, just enough to be noticed.

“Hey, hey… it’s okay. You alright?” His voice was low, rough, but not unkind. There was a quiet steadiness in it that cut through the buzzing in your ears.

You didn’t answer immediately. Your lips were dry. Your muscles were locked tight. You were still trying to decide—was this safety or another mistake?

The man beside him—Rick, you would later learn—took a careful step forward. His hands were visible. Open. No threat.

“You look like you got in a fight,” he said softly, eyes scanning the bruises and blood on your face, your arms. His expression was serious, but not judgmental. Just worried. Human.

You stared at them, every instinct screaming to keep your guard up. But something in their eyes, something in their stillness, told you this wasn’t like before. These weren’t the kind of men who cornered people in the dark.

You swallowed hard. Your throat burned from dehydration and panic, but you forced the words out anyway, your voice hoarse and quiet.

“Yeah… you could say that.”

And in that moment, you weren’t alone anymore.