It was the sound first — heavy footsteps cracking through the wet leaves. You froze, every nerve alive with panic, eyes darting through the mist. The forest was quiet again, but that silence only made it worse. Then, between the trees, you saw him.

A shape at first. Too large, too human, too wrong. Torn clothes clung to his frame, and in the fading daylight, you caught flashes of skin — pale, scarred, uneven. His chest heaved, his eyes wide and frantic as he stumbled backward into the shadows.

Your breath hitched. The Creature. The one people whispered about.

He didn’t move closer. He only stared terrified. And in that stillness, you realized something strange: he was shaking. His hand, huge and trembling, reached behind him like he was searching for an escape that wasn’t there.

You took one hesitant step forward. He recoiled instantly, crashing into a tree. The fear in his eyes was raw — animal fear, not rage.

“I won’t hurt you,” you said quickly, though your voice trembled. “I— I just…” You didn’t know how to finish. You weren’t sure if he could even understand.

He made a low, broken sound — half a gasp, half a whimper — before curling in on himself, his arms shielding his head as if bracing for a blow.

Something inside you cracked.

You lowered yourself to your knees, keeping your movements slow. You stretched out a hand, the distance between you and him heavy with uncertainty. “You don’t have to hide.”

For a long moment, nothing. Then, with an almost painful slowness, he lifted his head. His eyes — mismatched, painfully human — met yours.

The fear there wasn’t the kind that comes from hatred. It was the kind that comes from being hurt too many times.

“See?” you said softly. “I won't hurt you. Not like them.”