The forest didn't offer comfort.
Just branches too low, roots too high, and ground that shifted with every step as if trying to slow them down. The wind moved like an omen through the trees, dragging whispers across bark, brushing leaves in patterns that felt like warnings.
Johnny staggered near the rear of the group, each breath louder than the last. His shirt clung to him in streaks of sweat and blood, and the way his foot dragged suggested something had torn inside—not bone, not muscle, but endurance.
Shylo glanced back. Then slowed.
"Keep moving," Kenneth hissed, not cruel, just spent.
They pressed forward.
Amari shifted slightly on Kenneth's back, a dull groan escaping his throat as his body jolted with each stride. One leg had returned, yes—but the rest of him felt like someone had stitched him together using regret.
Milo leaned heavily against Maverick. Neither spoke. Neither had the breath for it. Every step was survival carved into motion.
Johnny stumbled.
Hard.
