Chapter 1: The Stranger in the Wild (Part 2)

"I'm going hunting," he said bluntly.

I blinked, startled. "Wait—what?"

He paused at the steps, raising an eyebrow like I'd just asked him if the sky was blue. "What? Do you want to sleep without eating something?" His voice was clipped, matter-of-fact. "Because I don't. I want to eat. If you want to come, fine. If not…" He shrugged. "Also fine."

He turned, as if that was the end of the conversation.

And for a second, I considered staying. Staying in safety. In silence. Away from him.

But then I remembered the men. The way they laughed. The way they looked at me.

My fingers clenched around the first aid box. "Wait."

He stopped mid-step.

"I'm coming with you," I said, standing quickly—too quickly. My legs protested, but I ignored them. "I don't want to take chances."

He didn't respond. Just gave a short nod and kept walking, knowing I'd follow.

And I did.

The forest looked different at dusk—darker, quieter, with secrets hiding in every shadow. He moved effortlessly between trees like he'd memorized every path. I had to scramble to keep up, trying not to trip over every hidden root or whispering branch.

We walked for a long time in near-silence, the only sound the occasional rustle of something unseen.

Then he stopped.

Kneeled.

His eyes scanned the clearing ahead, unreadable as ever. He motioned for me to crouch—silent command again—and I obeyed without argument.

And that's when I saw it.

A deer.

Graceful. Still. Drinking from a shallow stream.

My breath caught.

He slowly raised the rifle.

My eyes widened. "Wait," I whispered. "You're actually going to—?"

A single shot cracked through the silence.

The deer fell instantly.

I gasped.

He stood, as calm as ever, and walked toward the fallen animal. I followed, hesitantly, heart pounding.

When we reached it, the deer was still. Peaceful. Like it had just laid down to rest and never woke up.

I stared at it, horrified. "You're so cruel," I said softly. "How can you just… kill something like this?"

He looked at me, unfazed. "Because I have to."

"No. You chose to."

He crouched beside the deer, checking it with quiet efficiency. "You came with me for protection. You want safety, shelter, food. But you don't want to understand what it takes to get those things."

"That's not fair."

He met my gaze then, sharp and unflinching. "No, it's not. But life out here isn't fair. And nature doesn't care if you think I'm cruel."

I bit the inside of my cheek, torn between anger and something I couldn't name. His words weren't laced with cruelty—they were just… real. Too real.

I looked down at the deer again. Beautiful even in death.

"I didn't grow up like this," I murmured.

"I figured," he said quietly. "That's why you need to learn fast."

Then he stood, hoisting the animal over his shoulder with a strength that made my chest tighten.

He walked ahead again, just like before—expecting me to follow.

And I did.

But this time, I wasn't just walking behind a stranger.

I was walking behind someone who lived in a world completely different from mine.

And somehow, I was now part of it.

We walked in silence for a while, the only sounds being the crunch of leaves beneath our feet and the occasional rustle of animals hiding just out of sight. I hugged my arms around myself—not because of the cold, but because of him.

There was something about the way he moved—like the forest belonged to him. Like he was the predator and everything else just lived here on borrowed time.

By the time we reached the cabin again, twilight had dipped fully into night. The forest around us buzzed with crickets and distant howls, but the man in front of me moved like he belonged here—shoulders straight, steps steady, like nothing about this day had unsettled him.

He didn't go inside the cabin.

Instead, he walked around to the side, where a small clearing held a flat wooden workbench under a sloped tin roof. A rusted hook hung from a beam, and a weathered cutting tarp was already laid out—this wasn't his first time doing this out here.

He lowered the deer gently onto the tarp.

I stood frozen a few feet away, arms folded, unsure if I should step closer or turn away.

Then he pulled out a hunting knife, wiped it on a cloth, and got to work.

I didn't realize I was holding my breath until I saw the blade slide through the deer's side with swift, practiced hands. He worked methodically—cutting, skinning, cleaning, separating—like it was just another chore. There was no cruelty in the way he moved, only purpose.

Still, I looked away.

"You don't have to watch," he muttered without glancing at me.

"I'm not," I said quietly, turning toward the trees, trying to block out the quiet squelch of flesh and the occasional crack of bone. I wasn't weak—but this... this was raw. Real.

Survival.

He didn't talk. Just kept working. Focused. Efficient. For a long time, the room was filled only with the sound of the knife slicing, the crack of bone, the rustle of skin. It should have made me sick. But it didn't.

Maybe because part of me finally understood.

He wasn't doing this for fun.

He was doing this because there was no delivery app in the woods. No grocery store waiting with packed chicken. No convenience.

There was only this.

Eventually, I heard the crackle of fire being lit. I turned to see he had cleaned the floor, wiped down his hands and a small stone pit already ablaze, flames licking upward. He had skewered a portion of the cleaned meat and was rotating it slowly over the fire, while the rest had been carefully packed into vacuum-seal bags—laid neatly into a metal container half-buried in the earth near the cabin, likely a forest-style freezer or cold pit.

"You store food like that?" I asked, surprised.

He nodded. "Bears won't touch what they can't smell. If you store it right. And dig deep."

"You live like this every day?" I asked quietly.

He didn't answer right away.

"Is there any other way to live?" he finally said, voice unreadable.

I watched him rotating the meat. He moved like he didn't even think about it. Like survival had become instinct.

"I would've burned the whole cabin down by now if I tried this alone," I thought but didn't say.

After several long minutes, he suddenly stopped and he didn't look at me when he spoke again.

"You know how to cook?" he asked, like he was asking if I could breathe.

I blinked. "What?"

"You heard me."

My eyebrows furrowed. "Why are you asking?"

"Since I saved your life…" he started, voice casual but laced with smugness, "you should probably contribute something."

I raised an eyebrow. "Contribute?"

"Cook some rice," he said simply. "Should be easy enough. Water. Fire. Grain. You won't screw that up."

My stomach flipped. I stared at him. "Why rice?"

"Because I'm making the meat. And I'm not cooking everything. That would make you a guest," he said flatly. "You're not."

I stopped. "Seriously? That's your condition for not letting me die in the woods?"

He shrugged. "Forest economy. You get rescued, you contribute."

I opened my mouth to argue, then shut it again. I didn't want to look useless. Or worse—helpless. He already treated me like a stray cat wandering into his forest.I should have told him no. Told him I couldn't cook to save my life. That I once burned soup. Soup. But something about his arrogant smirk made me say—

"Fine."

"Good," he said simply. "You'll find everything inside."

I reached the cabin, and once again, he pushed the door open without ceremony. Inside, it was as sharp and intimidating as he was—minimalist, but with expensive edges. Guns lined one wall. Knives another. A fireplace crackled in the corner. It didn't feel like a home. It felt like a base.

"Kitchen's that way," he said, pointing, then started doing his work like he didn't care whether I succeeded or blew the place up.

I stepped into the kitchen and stared at the unfamiliar layout. Sleek black cabinets. Industrial stove. Cast iron pans that looked older than me. And a fridge full of ingredients that may as well have been a science experiment.

I took a deep breath.

How hard could it be?

I added water to the pot, dumped in some rice, tossed in a pinch of salt, and set it on the edge of the fire.

Easy.