Victor woke to pain.
Not all at once. Pain did not return cleanly. It layered itself back in, one channel at a time, until the world was loud again.
First: the ache in his ribs. Deep. Blunt. Like a bruise wrapped around bone.
Second: the sting in his forearm. Hot and pulsing. Each heartbeat a small argument with torn flesh.
Third: the scrape of his throat. Dry from breathing dirt and fear.
He did not open his eyes immediately.
He listened.
Wind through leaves. Distant birds. The steady movement of a nearby stream.
No growls.
No padded steps.
No breathing that was not his.
Victor exhaled slowly, then regretted it as his ribs answered with sharp protest. He tightened his jaw and forced the next inhale shallow.
Okay.
Alive.
He opened his eyes.
Green canopy above. Sunlight fractured through branches in thin blades. Dust drifted lazily, indifferent to him.
He tried to sit and hissed as his side flared. He rolled instead, using his good arm to push himself upright in stages. His vision swam. He waited for it to settle.
When it did, he looked around.
Three bodies lay where they had fallen.
The wolves were still. Heavy. Wrongly heavy. Their limbs rested at angles that made denial impossible.
Victor stared at them.
No triumph.
No satisfaction.
Only fact.
They had stopped moving, or he would have.
He looked down at himself.
His forearm was torn in a crescent where teeth had found purchase. Blood had dried in dark streaks along his skin and sleeve. His shin was smeared red. Dirt clung to everything.
His hands.
His clothes.
His breath.
And in his fist, his knife.
He did not remember tightening his grip. But the blade was there, slick and notched, as if his body had refused to release it until certainty returned.
Victor loosened his fingers slowly. Pain flared in his joints from overuse.
He did not drop the knife.
He set it beside his knee deliberately.
His mouth tasted like iron.
His body wanted to collapse again. He could feel it gathering. Muscles heavy. Joints slow. Vision threatening to dim.
But he did not let it.
Not here.
Victor's number one rule was not philosophy.
It was survival simplified.
Do not pass out where you cannot control what happens next.
He forced himself upright. He stood carefully, shifting weight onto his good leg. His ribs stabbed. He paused, breathing shallow, letting the pain settle into background noise.
He scanned the tree line.
Nothing.
The forest had already moved on. Predator and prey returned to routine. The world did not care that he had nearly died.
Useful.
He retrieved the knife and slid it into his belt without ceremony.
Then he moved.
Each step was controlled. Each motion negotiated with injury. His shin protested. His ribs burned. His forearm throbbed with building heat.
He followed the sound of running water.
The stream came into view.
Victor knelt at the bank and studied it. The water moved clean and fast over stone. It looked like mercy.
He did not trust mercy.
He checked upstream.
Downstream.
Listened.
Nothing.
He drank carefully. The cold shocked his system. It hurt in a way that confirmed he was still functioning.
He washed his forearm and clenched his jaw as pain flared bright.
The wound was ugly. Angry red around torn flesh.
Infection was not immediate.
But it was possible.
He tore a strip from the bottom of his shirt with his teeth and free hand. The fabric resisted, then gave.
He wrapped the cloth tight enough to slow bleeding without cutting circulation.
He flexed his fingers.
They responded.
Good.
He cleaned the scratch on his shin next. Shallow. Raw. Wrapped it loosely.
When he finished, he sat back and let his breathing steady.
He looked at his reflection in the water.
Same young face.
Same hard eyes.
Now marked with blood and exhaustion.
The mismatch irritated him.
It meant something had been removed.
Not the memories. That absence was already a wall.
Something else.
Context.
Reason.
A map of why.
He set the thought aside.
If he could not access the past, he would construct the future.
Victor stood and began moving downstream.
Water led somewhere. Somewhere meant information.
He walked for a long time, keeping the stream within hearing range. He stopped often, not for rest. Rest was secondary. He stopped to listen. To confirm he was not being followed.
His ribs remained unstable. Not worsening. Not healing. He knew the feel of a cracked rib.
Eventually the trees thinned. The stream widened slightly and the bank softened into mud.
Victor stepped into the softer earth and paused.
Tracks.
Not his.
Not animal.
Human.
A boot print with a heel. The tread faint but distinct. Overlapping impressions suggested more than one person had passed.
His breath slowed.
Not relief.
Not comfort.
Proof.
He crouched and pressed two fingers into the print.
Not fresh. Edges softened. But not old.
Recent enough.
Victor stood and followed the direction they indicated.
Careful.
Quiet.
Because now the forest held more than teeth.
It held people.
The tracks drifted away from the stream toward firmer ground. Grass replaced mud. Stones replaced roots. The terrain opened slightly where sunlight reached the floor more directly.
He kept the stream within earshot as long as possible.
Then he lost it.
The absence of water made the world feel larger. Less anchored.
Victor adjusted. Marked direction by sun, by slope, by airflow against his face.
He shifted the knife in his belt so the handle rested naturally under his palm.
Not because he wanted to use it.
Because intention did not matter.
His forearm itched beneath the wrap. His ribs tightened with every deeper breath. The injury was not healing. It was being managed.
He continued anyway.
He crested a low rise.
The ground beyond was different.
Not dramatic.
Subtle.
Flattened. Packed. Grass shorter. Stones displaced. Shallow ruts cut into hardened earth.
A road.
Dirt worn firm enough for wheels.
Victor did not step onto it.
Roads meant people.
People meant unknown rules.
He moved parallel to it instead, staying within the tree line. Brush provided broken sightlines. Uneven ground offered pause points.
His ribs punished every crouch and shift.
He accepted it.
Direct paths belonged to those who assumed welcome.
Victor kept the road in view without approaching it. He measured distance by sound. Footsteps would scuff differently on packed earth. Wheels would creak. Voices would travel farther than expected.
He heard nothing.
Which meant either no one was near.
Or someone was being careful.
He slowed further. Every step deliberate. Pain dictated pace, not pride.
Pain was information.
Ignoring it had nearly killed him once already.
He selected a path that forced visibility to break in intervals. If someone watched, he wanted them working to maintain line of sight.
Victor did not know this world's rules yet.
But he knew one thing.
The road was not safety.
It was exposure.
And when he chose to step onto it, it would be because he had decided the risk.
Not because the world had pushed him there.