The trees thicken, branches clawing at my arms as I push forward. The jungle is quiet, eery almost. I don’t stop. My legs ache, my body screams for rest, but I keep going, deeper and deeper, until I see it.

A small house. Wooden. There’s a sitting area outside, simple wooden stools and a small table. Someone lives here. My heart pounds. I need to go before they see me.

But as I step back, pain flares in my side. I stumble, catching myself on a tree. Blood. I’d been too focused on running to notice the wound—how deep, I don’t know. My body is cold, weak. I take another step, but then—A sound. A shift of movement. I freeze.

A man stands in the doorway. Tall. His dark eyes lock onto mine, studying me. He’s not surprised to see me—he looks more… concerned. Like he was expecting someone, but not me.

Panic grips me. I don’t know who he is, but I know better than to trust strangers. My breath quickens, and I step back, trying to disappear into the jungle. But my body betrays me. My knees buckle, and I collapse against a tree.

The man moves forward. Not fast, not threatening—careful, controlled. His voice is deep, steady. “You’re hurt.”

I shake my head, forcing myself up “Stay away.”

He stops, raising his hands slightly like he’s trying to show he’s not a threat. “I won’t hurt you.”

I don’t believe him. I can’t. People who say that usually do. My vision blurs, and I grip the rough bark of the tree to stay upright.

The man takes a slow step closer, eyes scanning my dirty, wounded. “You need help.”

I press myself against the tree, every muscle screaming for me to run, to fight, to do something. But I’m too tired. Too broken. And he knows it.

“I am here to help”

He’s lying. He has to be. No one helps without a reason.