The cabin floor was covered by one big red fancy mat, and it looked oddly lavish for something left in the middle of nowhere. Not the kind of rug you expected in a place surrounded by wet bark and mud, but the kind you'd see in a living room where people cared about the way guests wiped their shoes. The fabric looked thick, expensive, almost soft enough to swallow sound.
The walls were decorated with small plants and a few photo frames, spaced out neatly, making the cabin feel somewhat alive. Like someone had tried to force warmth into the wood, to keep it from turning into just another empty box in the forest. The plants weren't drooping, not even a little. Their leaves were clean, unbruised, and too green for a place that should've been forgotten.
The biggest framed photo hung above the fire pit, centered like an altar, facing the front door.
Hao's eyes narrowed a little.
An elderly man stared back from the photo, broad-built, wearing a red ranger shirt, deep blue jeans, and black shoes polished enough to catch the light. An equally old woman stood tucked against his side, one hand at his waist, dressed in a simple light-red fabric dress.
They smiled like the cabin was theirs in a way the forest couldn't argue.
Like the world still worked the way it was supposed to.
Like the forest wasn't a problem.
Like this cabin wasn't a strange miracle in the middle of nowhere.
Hao held the stare for a second longer than he meant to. The picture wasn't just a memory. It looked too… intentional. Too proudly displayed. As if it mattered who these people were. As if their presence, even captured in a frame, was part of what made this place function.
And that thought made his skin tighten.
Because if the cabin needed a story to feel real, then maybe it could rewrite him into it just as easily.
Click.
The door behind Hao drifted shut on its own, slow and smooth, like it was trying not to startle him.
It still did.
His shoulders stiffened for half a second, instincts screaming at him to spin around, to check the handle, to test it, to make sure it wasn't about to lock by itself or swallow him whole. The sound wasn't loud, not even dramatic. That was the problem. A door closing quietly felt peaceful. And nothing in this forest had been peaceful.
He forced himself not to overreact.
He didn't ponder much.
He'd already learned that thinking too hard in this place didn't give answers, it just gave anxiety. The more he tried to logic his way through it, the more the world seemed to laugh by doing something worse. If there were rules here, they didn't care about what he thought should make sense.
So he did what he could: observe.
And the whole cabin seemed almost brand new anyway, like it wasn't abandoned in the middle of nowhere. The wood didn't look swollen or aged. Nothing seemed cracked. There weren't any stains on the rug, no water damage on the ceiling, no dust film on the frames that would scream unused.
It was clean.
Too clean.
It almost felt… prepared.
That thought sat in the back of his mind like a pebble in a shoe. Small, easy to ignore, but it kept scraping every time he tried to take another mental step.
Hao shifted his weight and stared around the main room again, forcing his breathing to steady. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat, but he made himself inhale slow, exhale slower, like he was trying to convince himself that he was still in control.
The fire pit sat quiet and empty in the center, dark stones stacked neatly, like it hadn't been used in a long time. Yet it didn't look neglected. No ash spill, no scattered wood, no soot creeping up the wall. It was the idea of a fire pit more than a used one. Like everything here was arranged to look right.
Everything looked like it was waiting.
Like it belonged in someone's routine.
On the fire pit's right was a stairwell, leading to a second floor. Hao's eyes hovered toward the stairs for just a moment, measuring them, imagining what could be up there, imagining how fast he'd have to run if something started coming down.
Then something else took his attention.
Right next to the stairs, a door stood firmly shut.
Not as thick as the one behind him, but carved out of the same wood, the same grain, the same exact shade. It blended flawlessly with the cabin's decorum, like the builder had made sure nothing stood out, nothing broke the flow of "cozy." It didn't look like an addition. It looked like it had always been part of the cabin's skeleton.
That, more than anything, made him wary.
Hao walked toward it.
His steps were quiet on the rug, muffled by the thick fabric. For a second he wondered if the mat was there for warmth… or to hide sound. His eyes flicked back once at the front door, the solid slab of wood now shut behind him, and he could almost feel the forest on the other side, pressed up against it like a hungry crowd waiting.
He turned back to the door by the stairs.
Closer now, he could see the handle was clean too. No scratches, no fingerprints, no worn spots from years of use. It looked like nobody had ever grabbed it.
Like nobody had ever needed to.
He reached out anyway.
His hand closed around the doorknob.
Cold. Smooth. No grime, no sweat-stain, no worn patch where a hundred hands had turned it over the years.
In one fluid swish of motion, the door gave way, revealing…
A kitchen.
A small, cozy kitchen, which also seemed as if everything was carved out of the same wood. The counters, the cabinets, even the trim and the edges of the shelves all shared the same grain, the same shade, the same obsessive consistency. Everything blended together so well, from the mat under his feet, to the kitchen cabinets above his head, to the small gas stove tucked neatly against the wall.
It was almost irritating how consistent it was, like someone had a single obsession and built a whole cabin around it.
Like "warm and safe" wasn't a feeling, but a blueprint.
Hao's eyes drifted along the cabinets before choosing one.
Swish.
Everything worked and looked like it was brand new. The cabinet opened just as easily as the two other doors, smooth as if the hinges had been oiled yesterday.
A few kitchen cleaning agents stood there: dish soap, abrasive cleaners, a package of sponges…
Not even opened. Not even half-used. Just… stocked. Arranged. Facing forward, labels visible. Like a store shelf.
His stomach tightened, not from hunger, but from the wrongness of it. Because no abandoned cabin kept sponges this clean. No "forgotten" place stocked dish soap like it expected someone to wash up after dinner.
Swish, swish, swish.
Hao opened the kitchen cabinets one after another. Just normal kitchen stuff. Bowls, plates, cutlery. Mugs stacked evenly. A few pots that didn't have scratches on the bottom. It was all there, all arranged like a real kitchen, not a stage.
But it felt staged anyway.
Not because it looked fake.
Because it looked too complete. Too ready. Like the idea of a kitchen rather than the aftermath of years of living.
Some cabinets were even filled with snacks, like beef jerky, chips, pretzels, and so on.
Hao stared at them for a second too long.
His brain did that stupid human thing where it tried to pretend the scene was normal. Like he was just on a trip and found a cabin and wow, look, snacks. Like he wasn't in the middle of something that felt like a trial designed by a dead Anchor with a sense of humor.
The thought almost made him laugh. It got stuck in his throat instead.
He didn't take anything. Not yet.
He wasn't starving, but he wasn't comfortable either. Hunger was there, hovering behind everything, waiting to become louder. Still, he didn't trust food that appeared this conveniently, in a cabin that looked like it had been cleaned five minutes ago.
His hand reached for the gas stove.
And it instantly ignited with a low woosh.
The flame flared lazily in a constant light orange and deep red in the middle, steady like it had never known interruption. It didn't sputter. It didn't struggle. It didn't act like it was a stove in a cabin in the middle of nowhere.
It acted like it belonged in a city apartment.
Hao stared at the flame, then down at the stove knob, like he expected it to be some trick that would reveal itself if he looked hard enough.
A small gas line made its way from the oven and to under the countertop where a gas reservoir stood.
Hao crouched slightly, eyes following the line, then paused.
It wasn't dusty. It wasn't rusted. It wasn't half-empty. It was just… there. Ready.
Like the stove had been waiting to be turned on.
Like the cabin assumed he would want warmth. Food. Comfort.
And that assumption felt invasive.
The kitchen, overall, seemed friendly enough that nothing would crawl from.
Friendly enough.
That was the best compliment he could give anything lately.
He turned back to the stairs.