Hope Is Not a Friend

The door creaked open with a metallic groan, its hinges shrieking softly as if remembering every time it had closed to silence and secrets. Axir stepped out slowly, not with the weariness of age but the deliberation of a man carrying the weight of fate in his chest. His eyes, dulled only by time but sharpened with knowing, scanned the pale horizon with calm precision, as though something waited out there—something not yet written, but deeply inevitable.

Without turning, he spoke to Damián, voice low and grim. "Hope for the best… but just remember: hope has never been humanity's best friend." The words struck like frost, settling in Damián's chest. He stepped forward, his presence quiet, but the atmosphere around him shifted. With a tone that seemed to float from the back of his throat, disembodied and hollow, he replied, "I never believed in hope." It didn't sound like something he said for the first time. It sounded like something he had always known.

Axir closed the door behind them with a quiet finality. The gentle click of the lock echoed louder than a gunshot, like the sealing of an old chapter—one soaked in hesitation and shadow. He turned, his expression unreadable beneath the lines of wisdom carved by time. "Then let's go find what we seek," he said. No flair. No ceremony. Just the heavy truth.

As they stepped onto the pathless wild that unfurled beyond the cabin, Damián asked the question that clawed at his mind, "How do we even find things like this? A tree no one's seen in centuries? Blood from a creature science says is extinct?" His voice cracked at the edges—not from fear, but from awe, from the madness of daring to believe such things might still be real. Axir didn't meet his gaze. Instead, he kept his eyes forward, as though tracking an invisible current. "Those who give shall receive," he answered. "Twice the value of what they offer. And those who only receive… shall be given what only saints can carry."

Damián let the words sink into his bones. There was no logic to them—at least not yet. Only rhythm. Only weight. A moment passed, and then Axir added, almost offhandedly, "Check your right pocket." Damián furrowed his brow. "What?" Axir didn't flinch. "The third one. Horizontal gap." Damián obeyed. His fingers brushed against something cold and solid. Metal. He pulled it out, confused—and then stunned. In his palm rested a small black pistol. It was simple, matte, and elegant. No inscriptions, no obvious enhancements. Yet it felt heavy. Too heavy for its size. Not in mass, but in meaning.

Damián stared at it like it was a riddle written in blood. "What the hell is this doing in here?" he asked. Axir responded with eerie calm, "It's for hand-to-hand combat." Damián turned to him sharply, his confusion almost childlike. "A gun… for hand-to-hand combat?" His voice cracked—not from disbelief, but something more primal. Something rooted in memory. His expression shifted, subtly but deeply, like a wound reopening. For a second, he didn't look like a would-be god. He looked like a nine-year-old boy watching the impossible happen in front of him. A child who had seen something break that should never have broken.

"Yes," Axir replied. One word. Smooth. Chilling. Absolute.

They walked on in silence, the kind of silence that doesn't ask to be broken. Damián felt the weight of the jacket Axir had given him pressing against his skin—stitched from fraying threads of blue, black, and white. It smelled faintly of damp wood, copper, and dust. It wrapped him not just in warmth, but in expectation. With each step, he could feel the future bending slightly in his direction. Not welcoming him. Just watching.