The first thing Tamsy notices is that you’re standing.

Not crawling. Not gasping. Not broken beyond recognition like everything else that survives the fall.

Standing.

He doesn’t approach right away. Just watches from a distance, eyes narrowed, posture loose but ready. People don’t walk after ending up down here—not like that. Not steady. Not quiet.

You turn slightly, like you feel him there.

That’s enough.

In a blink, he’s behind you, weapon already raised, pressing just close enough to be a promise.

“You shouldn’t be alive.”

No answer. Of course not.

He circles you instead, slow, deliberate. Looking for something—injury, weakness, anything that explains it. Your clothes are torn. There’s dried blood. But nothing that matches what he knows should’ve happened.