The forest itself recoiled as the survivors stood at its edge, the air tight with an ancient tension, as if the land remembered what they had done. The dirt beneath their feet was no longer just earth—it had become brittle, hollow, whispering their names with every crunching step. They were trespassers in a story they had written and abandoned, and now, it had come back rewritten in blood.
Zixuan stepped forward first, the red thread still tangled around his wrist like a tether to the past. Its pulse had slowed now, not from weakness, but from deliberation—like it was watching him, judging him. He looked back only once, his eyes scanning the circle of broken faces: Daniela, whose silence was louder than any scream; Mateo, eyes shadowed with things he hadn't dared speak; Paige, whose trembling hands had not left the hilt of her knife since they left the chapel.
