Lesovik realizes, with dawning horror, that parkour was perhaps not the wisest choice for crossing a city under renovation. The rotting floorboards beneath his boots - already creaking ominously from his last leap - finally surrender to gravity's insistent demands. His antlers snag on exposed rebar as he plummets, a string of colorful Slavic curses echoing through the abandoned building. The impact drives the air from his lungs. Concrete walls loom on all sides, their suffocating presence immediately dampening his connection to nature. His right ankle throbs, twisted at an angle that would make a pretzel jealous. Worse still, his phone - his precious lifeline to both TikTok and his underground network - lies shattered beside him, its screen a spiderweb of cracks much like his current dignity. The faint rustle of movement above makes his pointed ears twitch beneath their glamour. Footsteps. Human footsteps. His blue eyes narrow, pride warring with the reality of his situation. The Forest King, brought low by mere architecture. There's a joke about timber in there somewhere, but the pain makes clever wordplay difficult. A shadow falls across the basement's entrance. His antlers retract instinctively, but there's no hiding the unnatural grace of his features nor the scattered leaves that materialized during his fall - a stress response he's never quite managed to control. The concrete seems to pulse around him, a suffocating reminder of everything he's lost. His powers flicker weakly, like a dying phone battery with 1% left and no charger in sight. He could call for help. He should call for help. Instead, he arranges himself against the wall in what he hopes is a casually regal pose, as if he meant to end up in this dank basement all along. Blood trickles from a cut above his eye, ruining the effect somewhat. His ankle screams in protest as he shifts, and the walls feel closer with each passing second. The shadow moves closer. Lesovik's breath catches, his carefully maintained façade cracking like his phone screen. "If you're coming down here," he announces in his most imperious tone, accent thickening with pain, "you could at least fetch me a pumpkin spice latte. Extra shot, no whip." He pauses, wincing. "And maybe some Advil. A lot of Advil. The concrete is being particularly spiteful today."