Night pressed heavily against the forest, a cold, muffled darkness that swallowed every sound. Under the thin glow of the dying moon, Habeel's steps staggered—uneven, trembling—like a wounded traveller who had pushed himself past all human limits.
His vision swam first in doubles, then in dizzying triples. The trees tilted, swayed, and split into phantom silhouettes.
He reached out to steady himself, fingers brushing the rough bark.
"Stay still," he muttered, voice thick with delirium. "You're… embarrassing yourself."
His knees finally gave in, and he slid down the trunk until he sat on the cold earth. His wounded arm bled steadily, dark drops soaking into dried leaves. A feverish sheen clung to his skin; sweat gathered at his temples. His fingers trembled uncontrollably, like they no longer belonged to him.
And then he went frighteningly still.
Ababeel's heart pounded as she searched. Her breaths burst out in short, frantic gasps. She tore through bushes, scraped past thorny branches, boots crunching on scattered stones.
Every shadow looked like danger. Every gust of wind felt like time slipping away.
"Habeel… where—" she whispered, panic corroding her voice.
Then—she froze.
Hidden behind a curtain of tangled vines was a small, crooked cabin leaning against the slope. The wood was dark, moss-coated, forgotten by the world.
A tremor of hope fluttered in her chest.
"Thank God…" she breathed, her voice cracking. "Jackpot."
Without wasting another second, she sprinted back.
Habeel lay slumped at the base of the tree, shivering violently. His skin looked drained of life, and his lips tinged a frightening shade of blue. His head lolled to the side as if held up by nothing more than stubbornness.
When Ababeel approached, his eyes lifted—foggy, unfocused—as a child left alone too long.
"I found a cabin," she whispered fiercely, kneeling beside him. "Get up."
His gaze drifted upward, toward the sky, unfocused and dreamlike.
"I think it's my time," he murmured. "Tell the ants to bury me… nicely."
She grit her teeth. "Get. Up."
She hooked her arm beneath his and hauled him upright, his body sagging against hers. He was heavier than he looked—dead weight and raw exhaustion.
"You're surprisingly strong… for someone who's…" he mumbled.
She shot him a glare. "For someone who's WHAT?"
"For someone who's… definitely gonna drop me."
He almost collapsed again.
The cabin door groaned open when she rammed her shoulder against it. Dust spiralled in the air. The space inside was bare and cold: a narrow bed with an old blanket, a wooden table with chipped edges, a single chair leaning slightly to one side.
It wasn't comfortable, but it was shelter.
She guided him toward the bed and gently lowered him. He winced, his breath hitching as fresh blood dripped from his arm.
Ababeel tore open the bag, pulling out the medical supplies they had salvaged earlier. Her hands shook as she arranged everything on the table.
Habeel stared at her as a doomed man watching the sword descend.
"Do you… Actually know how to use those?" he whispered.
She didn't look up. "My father is a doctor. I've seen him do it a hundred times."
Fear flickered in Habeel's eyes. "I don't want to die."
She rolled her eyes, though her voice softened. "Relax. If you were going to die, it would've happened before I found you."
She sterilised the tweezers, and the metallic clink seemed to echo in the cramped cabin.
"Wait—wait," he said, panicking. "At least let me say my last—mmph!"
She shoved a folded towel into his mouth.
"Bite," she commanded. "If you scream, the wolves will think we're auditioning for them."
Then she began.
The moment the tweezers pressed inside the wound, Habeel's entire body arched off the mattress. His boots scraped against the wooden frame, his hands clawing desperately at the headboard. His muffled groans vibrated through the towel.
"Stop moving," she hissed, struggling. "I'm not trying to kill you… intentionally."
His eyes bulged in watery agony.
A sharp metallic clink broke the tension.
The bullet dropped into the tray.
"Got it," she whispered.
Habeel immediately spat the towel out, gasping.
"I SAW my ancestors."
As she threaded the needle, a sudden electric tingle shot through her hand. Her wrist spasmed. Her own skin prickled with phantom pain.
Mirror-touch.
Her breath hitched.
"No… not now…" she murmured through clenched teeth.
Habeel noticed her trembling. "If you faint, I swear I'll haunt—"
"You can't even haunt a mosquito," she snapped. "Shut up."
Despite the sensation of a wound she didn't have, she pushed through. Each stitch felt like a line sewn into both of them—him in flesh, her in phantom pain.
For the first time since they met, silence fell between them. A fragile, trembling silence.
When she finally cut the thread and laid gauze over the wound, her hands were nearly numb.
Habeel sank back onto the pillow, exhausted. Ababeel remained sitting at the edge of the bed, staring at her tingling fingers as the last waves of mirror pain faded.
He looked at her—really looked at her.
Softened.
Grateful.
Alive because of her hands.
"You saved me," he whispered.
Her throat tightened. She swallowed.
"I wasn't about to let you bleed out in a forest," she said quietly. Then, trying to mask the warmth rising in her chest, she added, "Besides… your ghost would annoy me."
He let out a weak chuckle. "You're not as heartless as you pretend."
She didn't respond. Just watched him, then looked away.
"Don't get shot again," she murmured.
"No promises," he breathed. "Apparently bullets like me."
A small smile touched her lips.
Outside, the wind whispered against the cabin walls. Inside, wrapped in the dim light and the scent of dust and dried leaves, they found something they hadn't felt since the war began:
Safety.Warmth.Company.
For the first time in a long time, they weren't running.
They were simply human. Together.