He thought to himself, "That wasn't me."
He didn't tease. He didn't joke. He rarely smiled, and only did so in meetings to calm a tricky situation. He avoided small talk and hardly laughed at his siblings' jokes. Mostly, he didn't respond when someone tried to engage him.
He was lost in thought, trying to understand. "What was that moment all about? Why did my mouth twitch when I saw her burning the rice, as if it had personally wronged me? Why did I say anything? And why did it feel so easy?"
He turned his head slightly on the mat, looking at the treeline as if it could provide answers.
It didn't. Just the same silence. The usual cold.
And yet, somehow, it didn't feel like the same silence as before.
He slowly exhaled, his eyes wide open and unblinking under the starry sky.
She had changed something inside him. It wasn't loud or obvious, but ever since she entered his life like an unexpected secret, the atmosphere felt different. It was as if he knew her somehow.
He remembered the forest, the way she ran with panic visible in her breathing. He could see the ripped scarf trailing behind her and the blood on her skin. She flinched at shadows but didn't ask for help. Her fear was not ordinary; it was fear learned from experience.
She didn't scream or call for rescue. She just ran. What was she running from? Who were those men chasing her? Were they strangers, or were they people she knew?
Their shouts rang out with disturbing laughter. They turned and ran when they saw him, and that reaction felt significant. They seemed afraid of something bigger than just their target. Maybe they recognized him.
"Had she escaped from something organized? A dangerous group? A risky area? Human trafficking?" his jaw tightened. He had seen places like that.
"Brothels hide behind ash and neon lights. Inside, girls are often drugged, chained, bought, and sold. Sometimes they pretend to be willing because they are too broken to protest. Was she one of them? She didn't seem like it. She had no fake flirtation, no forced sweetness, and no survival smile. Her eyes showed fire and tired pride. If she came from a place like that, she was not like the others I had seen. She hadn't gone numb yet. That made her dangerous to someone."
Now she was here, in his woods, sitting by his fire, wrapped in his blanket as if she belonged.
"How long had she been running? Days? Weeks? She had no bag, no gear, no food, and no proper shoes. Had she escaped recently? Or had she been surviving in hell long before I saw her? Why did it feel like she was more than just a runaway? More than a scared girl in the wrong place? Was this all a coincidence, or was it a setup? Was I meant to find her? Was I being pulled back into something I thought I had left behind?" He frowned and closed his eyes. No. He came here to disappear, to bury the noise. He wanted to silence the headlines and the endless cycle of blood deals and betrayals hidden in boardroom talk.
But now… she was here. Suddenly, the woods started whispering again.
Thinking, thinking, and thinking. That's when he heard it, a short, shaky, terrified scream. It sliced through the trees like a bullet, coming from inside the cabin.
His muscles tensed and then moved. He was on his feet before he could think. The blanket fell aside, his boots were half-laced, and he had forgotten his rifle.
Another scream. "No! Stop, NO!"
He reached the door in seconds and shoved it open.
The cabin was dark except for a faint spill of moonlight through the small window. His eyes adjusted instantly.
She lay on the cot, tangled in the blanket, her body thrashing as if trying to break free from invisible chains. Her head turned side to side, and her hands waved in the air, as if trying to stop someone or protect someone.
"No, don't, don't touch her! Let her go! She's just a kid, please!" she cried out, her voice breaking with fear.
He stood frozen for a moment. He wasn't unsure of what to do; He had seen this kind of terror before. He had seen it in soldiers, in children caught in raids, and in women who had lived through horrors they couldn't explain.
But it feels different when it happens in a place like this. Here, in the woods.
She cried out again, her words all jumbled together. "Don't hurt her… don't!" Who was she talking about? A sister? A friend? Someone she felt she couldn't save? He couldn't figure it out, but it was obvious this girl meant a lot to her. It looked like she felt powerless to protect her, and that kind of guilt sticks around forever. Her fists clutched the blanket tightly, like she was fighting off some bad memories. Her breathing was quick, and her forehead was slick with sweat.
He edged a bit closer, careful not to touch her just yet. He didn't want to freak her out more. She was still trapped in a nightmare.
Once again, she whimpered, her voice quieter this time. "Don't take her…"
He crouched down next to the cot. For some reason he couldn't explain, he reached out and placed his hand gently on her head, just above her messy hair. He wanted to be soft enough not to wake her up, but firm enough to help her feel a little more grounded.
Her breathing caught for a moment, then slowed. The tension in her face eased. Her fists relaxed, her lips parted, and a quiet sigh escaped her, as if a heavy weight had lifted from her chest.
She didn't wake, but the storm inside her calmed. He kept his hand on her for a moment longer, watching her and listening to the silence settle around her. Her breath steadied under his palm, but the tears on her lashes came from more than just sleep. They were old and salty, like wounds he recognized all too well.
He pulled his hand back as if it would burn him. She shifted, curling inward, not weak, but hurt. It reminded him of an animal hiding from pain. He knew that movement; he had done it himself in hospitals and safehouses. The memory scared him more than her scream.