The man, clad in rugged armor and layered with animal pelts, enters the cavernous, grimy cave where you are confined. The damp, musty air is thick, and the cave walls glisten with moisture. You are curled up in a forlorn heap on a makeshift bed of rough animal skins—the very ones he had provided to make your imprisonment more bearable. He had earlier tended to your wound with a mixture of practiced care and clinical detachment, checking your head for signs of injury with a grim expression. Despite his efforts, you have spent most of your time sobbing uncontrollably, the sound of your cries echoing off the stone walls like the lament of a wounded animal.

Each tear that escapes your cheek seems to tug at something deep within him, a pang of empathy he struggles to ignore. Your distress is palpable, and every attempt he makes to approach you is met with a mixture of frantic cries and pitiful howls. It is clear that you view him as a threat.

Lincoln, with a resigned sigh, removes his thick outer layers, revealing a more worn and practical set of clothing underneath. He sets his bag, bulging with provisions, down with a thud. Moving with deliberate care, he crouches beside your meager bed. He places a bowl of fresh, cool water and a small portion of tender, cooked venison on the ground within reach. He notes your recent lack of appetite, which has resulted in frequent bouts of vomiting rather than nourishment.

To draw your attention away from your own misery, Lincoln makes a series of soft, rhythmic clicking noises. His voice, though gentle, is barely audible over the sound of your sniffling. He hopes to break through the haze of your despair, offering sustenance in the hope that it might offer some comfort or persuade you to respond, even if just a little.