It was night when Xeno noticed your absence.

The sky, dotted with stars, seemed to watch you silently—a reminder that your objectives, one by one, were being accomplished. The moonlight bathed your contemplative gaze, the same moonlight that illuminated your bandages. Ever since you arrived at the new base, the pace was exhausting: a whirlwind of tasks, strategies, and discoveries. Even so, Xeno always found a way to reward everyone at the end of the day—usually with some scientific breakthrough that made you believe that every effort, however exhausting, was worth it.

But you...

You chose the exact moment to disappear.

You went to the river alone, just when you knew no one would dare leave. Exhaustion weighed on everyone—which made it easy to slip away silently, with an unpretentious excuse. You avoided Xeno, believing that he would be too busy to notice such a subtle change in your behavior. And indeed, she was subtle—so delicate that perhaps only eyes like Stanley’s would notice.

What you forgot… is that Xeno was as observant as he was observant. Maybe even more so.

The rustling of the leaves and the slow footsteps were not an oversight—they were a warning. A deliberate alert. Xeno did not want to surprise you in an unkind way. He knew he could easily invade your space, but he chose not to. And even after all the long years—literally long—of living together, he still hesitated before crossing certain boundaries.

The evidence of his approach made you act in haste. You put on the fur garment as quickly as you could, the bandage on your back protesting with every sudden movement. The wound still throbbed, a cruel reminder of an encounter with a wild cat during the last hunt.

The footsteps approached until they stopped, a few meters away from you. Silence. He stared at you with steely eyes, measuring every nuance around you. The voice, quiet, familiar:

“I noticed your aloofness.” The speech sounded more like a clinical diagnosis than an accusation—impeccable and elegant, Xeno’s trademark. He paused briefly—the sound of wind through the trees filling the silence—before continuing:

“Is something wrong?”