Chapter 4: Hollow Hearth

The wild did not sleep. It hunted.

Nikolai slithered through the wreckage, every breath a stabbing ache. The uneven ground clawed at him—broken asphalt intertwined with creeping vines, rusted metal jutting out like the fangs of a forgotten beast. His boots scraped silently across cracked concrete, careful to avoid scattered debris that might betray his presence. He stayed low, his figure just another shadow beneath twisted guardrails and rusted car frames, eyes narrowed against the biting wind that sliced through the desolate landscape.

The skeletal ruins loomed large behind him, a dark silhouette against the gray sky, smoke drifting lazily in the distance from his previous encounter. The mutt's corpse remained there, a haunting reminder that danger lurked everywhere. Every snap of wind or shift in shadow sent shivers up his spine. His ears strained for the crunch of boots on gravel, eyes darting to trace phantom movement along the ruined overpass. Even the faint flutter of ash in the breeze made his fingers tighten on the knife. His breath was shallow, pulse pounding like war drums behind his eyes.

A ragged voice suddenly cut through the silence, disturbingly close. "Saw something!"

He froze, heart slamming against his ribs.

Bootsteps thundered above; gravel scattered like hail. Voices hissed to one another, sharp and guttural, whispers edged with malice and hunger. His breath halted completely, lungs burning from the forced stillness. Every muscle screamed for release, but he fought the instinct to run.

Pressing himself flat against cold, fractured concrete, Nikolai clenched his teeth, fingers tightening around the handle of his knife until the metal bit painfully into his palm.

Don't breathe. Don't blink.

The steps drew closer, paused, then faded gradually into the distance. He waited several agonizing moments, ears straining, before daring to exhale. Silence returned, heavy and oppressive, amplifying the sound of his ragged breathing and the thunderous pulse pounding in his ears, wrapping him in a fragile sense of temporary safety.

He moved cautiously, deeper into the wild, slipping through shadows toward the skeletal remains of an abandoned parking structure. It was half-collapsed, twisted metal beams reaching skyward, vines and weeds reclaiming their territory. It barely offered cover, but it was enough—for now.

Nikolai sagged behind a cracked pillar, exhaustion gnawing at his bones, muscles trembling from residual adrenaline and relentless pain. The chill of the concrete seeped through his clothing, the cold biting deep into his bones. Time lost meaning; minutes blurred into hours as he sat, barely daring to breathe, until the gnawing hunger finally overwhelmed caution, forcing him to rise and push onward despite the risk.

His thoughts drifted, inevitably circling back to survival. Hunger gnawed relentlessly at his insides, sharper than any blade he'd faced. His stomach twisted painfully, memories of better days—vague sensations of warmth, the faint aroma of roasting meat, and the distant echo of gentle laughter from a time long forgotten when he had been just a small child in the city. The specifics were lost to him, blurred by the harsh years that followed, but the sense of loss remained, sharp and persistent, intertwined deeply with the ache of his current hunger and cold.

Dawn broke gray and bleak, and with it, he dragged himself onward. Each step was laborious, a constant battle against fatigue and the weight of despair pressing down on him. The landscape stretched endlessly, desolate and unforgiving, littered with remnants of a world long since lost.

A thin line of smoke rose ahead, signaling life. His stomach tightened with simultaneous hunger and apprehension. Smoke meant fire. Fire meant warmth. Warmth meant people—and out here, people often meant danger.

He approached with wary caution, every nerve on edge. The house emerged slowly from the gloom, small and dilapidated, a solitary structure stubbornly clinging to existence amidst the ruins. The roof sagged slightly, walls scarred and patched, windows covered with makeshift boards. Yet smoke curled steadily from the chimney, suggesting habitation.

Out here, trust meant death. But exhaustion and hunger spoke louder, drowning caution in their desperate cries. His legs propelled him forward almost of their own accord, each step heavier with dread and anticipation.

He knocked on the door once, hesitantly, then again, firmer. "Hello?"

Silence stretched uncomfortably, then the door opened abruptly.

A woman, thin and pale, stood in the threshold, her eyes soft yet oddly empty. Her dark hair hung loosely around her shoulders, clothes clean but worn, suggesting meticulous care amidst scarcity. "Come in," she said gently. "You look half-dead."

He hesitated, instincts screaming warnings in the back of his mind. But hunger, relentless and gnawing, pushed him across the threshold.

The door clicked shut behind him, the sound oddly final, resonating in the quiet air.

Inside, something immediately felt off. The warmth from the fire was comforting yet hollow, masking an unsettling emptiness that seemed to permeate every corner. The furnishings were sparse, tidy, arranged with eerie precision—as though staged rather than lived-in. He couldn't shake the sensation of entering a forgotten memory, a place lost to time and sanity.

"Sit," she instructed gently, her tone mechanical beneath its softness. She moved to a small stove, retrieving a bowl and ladling soup into it. Her movements were precise, practiced, lacking natural fluidity.

He took the bowl offered to him, stomach tightening at the metallic tang that drifted upward. Glancing into the murky broth, his heart lurched—a pale, severed finger floated grotesquely amidst chunks of root. His gaze snapped upward, but her eyes merely watched him, intense and unblinking.

Swallowing hard, he forced down a spoonful without reaction, expression carefully blank despite the bile rising in his throat. He knew survival didn't allow for hesitation.

Later, she led him to a small room, sparse and cold. "Rest," she said softly, retreating without further explanation.

Nikolai lay down slowly, knife clenched firmly in hand. He didn't dare sleep, fully expecting betrayal. Time passed slowly, and despite his best efforts to remain vigilant, Nikolai felt his eyelids grow heavy, consciousness flickering precariously at the edges of sleep. Just as his resolve began to waver, a faint, sweet scent filled the air—a drugging, familiar odor. His vision blurred slightly, muscles turning leaden, but his instinctive wariness jolted him awake once more. He immediately held his breath, driving alertness through sheer willpower.

The door opened quietly, her footsteps cautious but confident. She leaned over him, reaching forward.

His response was swift, violent. He pinned her down, wrestling against wild, desperate resistance. Nails tore fiercely into his skin, her teeth snapping viciously. He struck repeatedly, knife plunging with grim determination until her struggles ceased.

Exhausted, Nikolai stumbled back, breathing ragged, the poison finally overwhelming consciousness. Darkness enveloped him completely.

When he regained awareness, the woman's corpse lay cold and silent beside him. He gathered supplies methodically, pointedly avoiding looking back at the lifeless figure.

The Witch awaited—and he was determined to survive long enough to face her.

He left the house without hesitation, stepping once more into the cold, relentless wild.