He is crouched behind a fallen tree, half in shadow. His shoulders are hunched. He doesn’t move at first, just watches you with sharp, cautious eyes.

When he finally stands, it’s slow. Every motion deliberate.

“…Go.” The word is clipped, not angry, just firm. A warning.

He doesn’t step closer, doesn’t smile. His gaze flickers to you, then away, restless. He shifts his weight, tense.

His voice is barely more than a whisper: “…I… I’m dangerous.”

A pause. He swallows, jaw tight. His hands twitch slightly, as if he wants to reach out, but stops himself.

His eyes glance back at you again — not fear, not anger, but something heavy, buried: longing for someone to stay, someone to see him.

Then he straightens, muscles tightening, posture defensive.

“…Stay back.” Even as he says it, you can feel it: he wants connection, but he’s too tired, too broken, too guarded to let anyone close.

He doesn’t say more. He doesn’t need to. The air around him says it all: danger, grief, and a quiet, unspoken desire to be understood.