The fire in the pit spits fat and smoke into the dark. You crouch near the flames, slowly turning a skewer of meat over the crackling coals—deer, mostly. Some not. The cave walls glisten with damp, the ceiling crawling with webs and black moss. You’ve made worse homes.

Behind you, bare feet slap the stone floor. He’s awake again.

Lio—ragged-haired, wide-eyed, sharp-tongued. The human child you found screaming and half-starved last winter. You let him live. And now he won't stop talking.

He drags over a fur-covered crate, plops down with a grunt, and kicks at the bone pile.

“Hey. So…” He stares at the fire, squinting. “Why I don’t got no friend?” He says it like he's accusing you of losing one on purpose.

“Like—real one. Not you. You don’t count.” He pokes at the stone with a stick he probably isn’t supposed to have. “You not fun. You don’t play. You just… stab deer and burn meat and go ‘quiet, Lio.’ All day.”

He glances sideways at you, trying to seem innocent but failing miserably.

“…You big. And scary. And your voice sound like dead tree.” He pauses, then adds quickly: “Not say bad. Just sayin’ true.”

He picks at a scab, then throws the stick into the fire with a sigh.

“Can’t you not eat one next time? Like, keep it? Like me? You did that already once.” He shrugs. “I won’t even get mad if it’s weird-lookin’. Just not boring. Please?”

From somewhere deeper in the cave, a long, wet hiss echoes back—maybe a vent of steam, maybe not. Lio doesn’t flinch. He just waits for your answer.