The town was drowning in blood.
Once, it had been a place of laughter, children chasing one another through the streets, market women bargaining over baskets of fruit, and the scent of roasted corn rising in the evenings. But all of that was gone now. The only sound that remained was the echo of screams screams swallowed by the night, cut short by the cold steel of machetes and the relentless spray of bullets.
The massacre had come without warning. Armed men, their faces hidden behind black scarves, swept through the town like a swarm of locusts. They slaughtered without mercy. Old men, women clutching babies, even those who tried to flee none were spared. The government had promised protection, but promises could not shield a body from bullets. And so, the people learned the truth the hard way: they were on their own.
In the chaos, Arya ran. Her lungs burned, her legs trembled, but fear gave her wings. She had lost sight of her neighbors and her friends. The only thought that kept her moving was survival.
Then she remembered the ocean.
It stretched just beyond the last line of houses a dark, endless body of water that most feared to approach at night. But Arya wasn't afraid. She was desperate. And desperation was stronger than fear.
She wasn't the only one who thought of it. A small group of people had broken off from the crowd and dashed toward the shore. Arya followed, the screams of the dying still sharp in her ears. The killers hadn't reached the coastline yet. That gave them a chance.
The first shock of icy water struck like knives against her skin, stealing her breath. Winter had turned the sea into a frozen grave, but Arya forced herself forward, diving deeper, swimming with frantic strokes. The salt burned her eyes, and the current threatened to drag her under, but she kept moving. Anything was better than being caught on land.
It was there, beneath the dark waves, that she first saw him.
A figure swam beside her, tall and strong, cutting through the water with determined movements. For a heartbeat, Arya panicked was he one of them? Had the killers followed into the sea? But then he turned his head, and even through the blur of water, she caught the glint of something human in his eyes: fear. Fear, just like hers.
They swam for what felt like hours, lungs screaming for air, hearts thundering in their chests. Finally, when the shoreline behind them had disappeared into shadows, they surfaced together, gasping. The night air was colder than the sea, slicing against their soaked clothes, but it carried no sound of gunfire. Only silence.
Arya's teeth chattered violently as she dragged herself onto the slippery rocks. The stranger followed, water dripping from his dark hair. He was breathing heavily, but his posture was steady, guarded as though even here, he refused to let his guard down.
For a long moment, they simply stared at each other, shivering in the winter night.
"Are you… one of them?" Arya whispered, her voice breaking from exhaustion.
The young man shook his head. "No. My name is Ivy." His voice was hoarse, but calm. "I was running, same as you."
Arya swallowed hard. She wanted to believe him. She needed to believe him. "Arya," she said softly, giving her name as if it were the last thing she owned in the world.
They stood in silence until the cold reminded them of their vulnerability. Their wet clothes clung to their bodies like ice. If they didn't find shelter soon, they would freeze before morning.
"Come," Ivy said, scanning the snow-blanketed woods ahead. "We need somewhere to hide."
They trudged through the biting wind, each step heavier than the last. Arya's lips had turned pale, and she wrapped her arms around herself, shuddering. She had lost her family, her home, everything she had known but she couldn't afford to break down. Not yet.
It was Ivy who spotted the cabin. A forgotten structure, half-buried in snow, its wooden walls cracked but still standing. They pushed the door open, and it groaned loudly, echoing into the emptiness inside.
The cabin smelled of dust and ash. Broken chairs were scattered across the floor, and a cold fireplace yawned open in the corner. But to them, it was salvation. At least the walls kept out the wind.
Ivy moved quickly, searching drawers and cupboards for anything useful. Arya rubbed her arms, her eyes wandering across the shadows of the abandoned home. She tried not to think of the bodies left behind in the town, the blood staining the streets. But no matter how hard she tried, she could still hear it the screams, the pleading, the silence that followed.
Her body trembled, and not just from the cold.
When Ivy returned, he carried a moth-eaten blanket and a bundle of dry clothes, faded and too large. "It's something," he muttered, handing them over.
"Thank you," Arya whispered. Her hands brushed his as she took them, and the contact was like a spark in the darkness. She hadn't realized how badly she craved warmth not just physical warmth, but the warmth of another human presence.
Ivy must have felt it too. His eyes lingered on hers for a fraction longer than necessary, his breath visible in the frosty air. For the first time that night, Arya felt her heart beat for something other than fear.
She looked away quickly, clutching the clothes to her chest. "We should rest," she said, her voice trembling. "Tomorrow… we'll figure out what to do."
Ivy nodded, though his gaze still followed her. The unspoken tension hung between them like smoke. It wasn't passion, not yet it was survival, it was relief, it was the fragile reminder that they weren't alone in this nightmare.
Outside, the wind howled. Snow pressed against the walls. And somewhere far beyond the trees, the killers still hunted.
Arya lay down on the hard wooden floor, pulling the blanket tightly around her body. Her eyelids grew heavy, but sleep didn't come easily. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw blood.
Beside her, Ivy remained awake, listening to every creak, every whistle of the wind. His hand rested on a broken piece of wood he had sharpened into a weapon. If danger came again, he would be ready.
Arya turned her head slightly, watching him from the corner of her eye. There was strength in his posture, a quiet determination that made her feel safer than she wanted to admit.
For the first time since the massacre began, she let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, there was hope.
But then, just as her body began to relax, a sound shattered the fragile silence.
A footstep.
Soft. Careful. Just outside the cabin door.
Arya's eyes flew open. Ivy straightened, his hand tightening around the makeshift weapon.
They weren't alone.