Rain.
It soaked his hair, clung to his skin, and turned the earth beneath his feet into slick, uneven mud. Every breath Arai took tasted of wet bark and cold air. His clothes, once dry and clean, now clung to him like a second skin—heavy, uncomfortable, real.
He stood still for a moment, the weight of the forest pressing down on him.
The glowing eyes in the trees were gone.
Whatever was watching him had retreated into the night.
They were testing me, Arai thought.Measuring.
He didn't call out. He didn't chase after them. He knew better.
This wasn't a place where people shouted into the dark and waited for help. This was a world where shouting got you eaten.
He walked.
No destination. No map. Just the instinct to move forward.
The forest around him was old, ancient in a way that felt almost sentient. Trees twisted in unfamiliar shapes. Branches moved with the wind, but… sometimes not in sync. Sometimes they moved just after he passed beneath them.
There were no trails. No lights. No cell signal. No satellites above.
Just cold wind. Soft thunder.
And silence.
After hours of walking, the rain eased into mist.
His muscles ached. His stomach growled. But he kept moving. The discipline he had built over years—the runs, the sweat, the quiet mornings—held him together now.
One step. Breathe.One more step. Listen.
Eventually, he heard it.
Water.
A stream—narrow, winding between roots and rocks. Arai dropped to one knee and dipped his hands in. The chill hit him instantly.
He cupped some into his mouth. The taste was sharp, clean, like snowmelt. He drank, splashed his face, and looked at his reflection.
A tired man stared back.
Eyes sunken slightly. Hair slicked against his face. Lips pale. But the gaze… still steady.
Still him.
I'm not dead.And I'm not going to die here.
He followed the stream downstream, hoping it would lead to signs of life.
And eventually—it did.
Smoke.
Thin, white, curling into the sky just past a slope. He crouched low, crept forward, and found himself at the edge of a clearing.
A village.
Small. Wooden houses with straw roofs. Lanterns hanging at doors. Chickens in a pen. A woman washing clothes. A child chasing a goat.
A real village.
His heart thumped—not with excitement, but caution.
New place. New people. Don't assume safety.
He stepped back into the shadows, breathing slowly.
He couldn't just walk in, drenched, unknown, and expect a warm welcome.
So he waited.
From the cover of the trees, he watched until nightfall. Observing. Counting people. Watching routines. Measuring threat.
Old habits from a life that never needed them—but now, they kept him grounded.
Once darkness fell and the village quieted, he made his move.
He crept to the edge of the village and approached a wooden barn.
Unlocked.
Inside: hay, tools, and warmth.
He settled in a corner, tucked behind a crate, and let his body relax for the first time since he arrived.
That night, he dreamt of home.
Of his sisters arguing over the TV remote.Of his mother humming while chopping vegetables.Of his father nodding off during the news.
And of the boy with the panda eyes who always came at 9:02 p.m., asking for strong plastic bags.
Arai woke with the sun.
Alive.
Still in this world.
Still him.
He stood, stretched, and made a decision.
I won't beg.I won't kneel.If I have nothing... then I'll build something with that nothing.From the ground up.