A new world

Charlie Swan stands at the forest's edge, the morning mist curling around his boots as he adjusts his rifle strap. Two days after spotting the cabin, its crude logs and lethal traps haunt him—a kid's fortress. Mark slouches by the cruiser, his arm still bandaged from the boy's claws, reluctance etched in his scowl. "This is a waste, Charlie. That thing's not worth it." Charlie's jaw tightens, but his voice stays even. "He's a kid, Mark, not a thing. We're finding him." Rusty, the hunting dog, paces eagerly, nose twitching as Charlie clips his leash. The trail from last time—claw marks, scattered bones—burns in his memory, clearer now. Vines seem parted, a path etched through the underbrush, subtle enough that he doesn't question it, just moves, driven by a cop's duty and a father's unease. 

Inside the cabin, the boy crouches near the door, claws flexing, red eyes glinting as the faint sound of boots and a dog's panting drift closer. His bare torso, slashed with old scars, tenses under battered tan jeans. The forest's hum pulses sharp today, urgent, threading through his nerves like a warning he can't parse. Three years of solitude have honed him into this—lean muscle, black claws, a growl rumbling low—but the humans' return stirs a flicker of something else, a child's curiosity warring with a beast's wariness. He peers through a gap in the logs, watching shadows move beyond the trees, the man's voice—"Easy, son"—echoing from days ago

Charlie leads the way, Rusty tugging hard, the trail growing stark—bones crunch underfoot, a pit trap's stakes glint with dried blood. The cabin looms ahead, taller and sturdier than he'd glimpsed. "There," he mutters, pointing, and Mark grips his rifle, muttering, "Place looks like a damn death trap." Charlie ignores him, stepping closer, his knock firm against the rough wood. "Kid, I know you're in there," he calls, voice steady but edged with urgency. "I'm not here to hurt you. Come out—we can help." Inside, the boy's growl rumbles, claws scraping the floor, but he hesitates—the forest's hum softens, a nudge toward the voice, not away. Mark shifts, rifle half-raised, but Charlie's glare pins him. "Lower it, now. He's scared, not stupid."

The door creaks open, and the boy steps out—bare chest scarred and pale, red eyes wary, jeans tattered at the hems. His claws flex, a snarl curling his lips, but he doesn't lunge. Mark stumbles back, rifle jerking up—"Jesus, Charlie!"—but Charlie steps forward, hand out, palm open. "Easy, kid," he says, voice softening. He tosses a strip of jerky at the boy's feet, a peace offering. "You don't belong out here alone, son. Come with us." The boy's nose twitches, red eyes flickering as he sniffs the meat, hesitating. The forest's hum swells, a gentle push—take it, go—and he crouches, snatching the jerky, tearing into it with fangs that gleam beneath cracked lips. Charlie watches, steady but tense, seeing Bella's age in that scarred frame—a kid, feral or not, who shouldn't be here. "I've got a daughter your age," he adds, low. "She'd kill me if I left you like this."

The moment hangs, fragile and taut, until a roar shatters it—a deep, guttural bellow shaking the trees, closer than any beast should be. Rusty yelps, cowering, and Mark spins, rifle up. "What the hell was that?" he snaps, voice cracking. The forest's hum spikes hard, urgent now, vibrating in the boy's bones—danger, leave. Shadows shift beyond the cabin, branches snapping under something massive—a bear, twisted, its eyes glinting red like the boy's, vampire-taint oozing from its roar. Charlie grabs the boy's arm, his grip firm but not harsh. "We're going, now!" The boy resists, claws grazing Charlie's sleeve, a snarl ripping free—but the roar closes in, trees trembling, and the forest's push overwhelms him. He relents, stumbling after Charlie, Mark firing a wild shot into the dark as they bolt.

They crash through the underbrush, the bear's bellow fading behind them, Rusty whining at Charlie's heels. The forest thins, the hum softening as if its work is done, and Forks' outskirts flicker into view—distant lights, a gravel road cutting through the mist. The boy stops short, breath heaving, his bare feet digging into the earth, red eyes wide at the sight of civilization. Charlie slows, turning to him, voice rough but kind. "You're safe now, kid. C'mon." The boy stares, claws retracting, the jerky's taste lingering on his tongue—a human gift, a thread to something lost. Mark mutters, "Crazy bastard," but Charlie ignores him, guiding the boy forward, his hand steady on a scarred shoulder. The forest's edge fades behind them, its hum a faint echo, releasing its charge into a world of lights and voices he doesn't yet know.

Charlie pulls into the station lot hours later, the boy slumped in the cruiser's back seat, silent, black eyes dimming as exhaustion takes hold. "Runaway," Charlie tells the desk clerk, voice clipped, filing a report that doesn't mention claws or fangs—just a kid, lost, found. But his mind churns—those scars, that bear, the forest He glances at the boy, then out at the night, Forks' quiet streets hiding secrets he's long suspected. "Let's get talk and get you fixed up," he says, softer, thinking of Bella's old clothes at home, a spare bed. The boy doesn't reply, but his claws stay sheathed, a fragile trust born of necessity—and a forest's silent will—drawing him into a world he doesn't know.