The forest had grown darker than any night he remembered.
Even the moonlight barely reached through the tangled canopy.
Each step Arin took felt heavier, slower — the kind of tired that came not from the body but from the soul.
The air was damp, breathing with unseen life.
Leaves whispered in patterns that didn't sound like wind.
He kept walking anyway, because stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant remembering.
He didn't want that.
Not now.
By the third day, his throat was raw from silence.
No words, no company — only his breathing and the endless drone of insects that came alive after sunset.
Perin's absence still weighed on him. The forest felt emptier without that tiny heartbeat nearby.
He had tried calling once.
Just once.
The sound of his own voice in the stillness felt wrong, like noise in a graveyard.
So he didn't try again.
By evening, his legs trembled. He climbed a tree with broad enough branches to lie on, resting his back against rough bark.
The canopy above stretched like a cathedral ceiling, black and green and endless.
He chewed the last bit of dried fruit he had scavenged earlier that day, forcing himself to swallow.
I can't keep this up forever, he thought. But I can keep it up tonight.
When the forest went silent — truly silent — he woke instantly.
No wind.
No chirping.
Just stillness.
And from that stillness came a faint sound, deep, rhythmic.
Breathing.
He stayed still, eyes scanning the forest floor.
At first, he saw nothing.
Then the shadows shifted.
Something large was moving between the trees.
It wasn't fast, but every step carried weight — slow, deliberate, careful.
He could hear branches creaking under the weight.
A faint glow reflected off its skin, pale greenish-blue, like the shimmer of fish scales under moonlight.
Arin's muscles coiled. He reached for a broken branch beside him, gripping it tight.
The creature emerged from the mist.
It stood on four limbs, twice his height, its body covered in rough, bark-like armor. Its eyes glowed faint yellow, not hungry but… wary.
Its movements weren't predatory. They were protective.
Arin didn't attack.
He waited.
Then, from behind the creature, a smaller figure limped forward.
A cub. No bigger than Perin, its side torn open, greenish blood dripping into the dirt.
The larger beast let out a low, guttural sound — a warning.
It turned its head toward Arin, teeth bared.
Arin understood immediately.
It thinks I'm a threat.
He slowly lowered his makeshift weapon.
But the creature's instincts didn't care.
It roared, the ground vibrating under his feet.
Then it charged.
Arin dove aside. The impact shook the tree behind him, splintering bark like glass.
He rolled, breath ragged, narrowly avoiding a second strike that shattered a rock beside him.
"Shit—!" he hissed, ducking another blow.
He couldn't run. Not in this terrain.
If he ran, it would follow — and that cub would die alone.
He grabbed a fallen vine and yanked it across the creature's leg as it lunged again.
It stumbled — just slightly — enough for him to dash forward and jam the broken branch between its armor plates.
The branch cracked in half.
The beast barely flinched.
Arin fell back, panting. His body screamed for him to use Echo, to summon Astra — anything.
He could feel them deep in his chest, like twin fires begging to burn.
A flash of memory hit him — Om Sai's voice.
"If you rely on power before mastering it, it'll own you again."
His hand trembled, the faint hum of Echo energy flickering around his fingertips.
Blue light. Soft. Tempting.
Then another voice — Kalink's — laughing faintly in the back of his mind.
"Go on. Let me help."
"Shut up," Arin hissed.
He slammed his fist into a nearby rock, hard enough to split skin, grounding himself in pain.
The glow vanished.
Only blood remained.
He could do this without them.
He had to.
The creature roared again and swung a massive claw. Arin ducked, grabbed a sharp stone, and drove it into the joint between armor plates.
A burst of dark blood splashed across his arm. The creature screamed, rearing back.
Arin staggered, exhausted, body aching from strain. He could barely see straight.
When the beast came again, he didn't block. He moved with the blow — rolling under its swing and striking upward with the broken stone, jamming it into the wound again.
It stumbled, howling, crashing against a tree.
Arin collapsed to his knees, gasping, vision blurring.
He didn't want to kill it.
He didn't even hate it.
But survival didn't ask permission.
Then something small touched his leg.
He looked down.
The cub had limped toward him — weak, trembling — pressing its head against his boot.
The larger creature froze.
Its breathing slowed. Its eyes flicked from Arin to the cub, then back again.
Understanding passed between them.
The beast let out a sound — low, mournful, almost human. It stepped backward, lowering its massive head beside the cub.
Arin stayed still.
Neither attacked.
Neither moved.
For a long time, they simply existed — two sides of fear staring at each other through exhaustion.
Then, slowly, the creature nudged the cub toward him.
It didn't look angry anymore.
It looked… tired.
Arin swallowed hard. "You… want me to—?"
The creature let out a soft rumble — almost like agreement.
Its massive eyes blinked once, twice. Then it turned, limping away into the deeper forest.
The cub whimpered, crawling closer to him.
Arin stared after the retreating figure. For a long moment, he didn't move. Then he exhaled, long and shaky, and sank to the ground beside the small creature.
It trembled when he reached out, but didn't pull away.
He tore a strip of cloth from his shirt and gently pressed it against the wound, wrapping it as best as he could.
"I'm not good at this," he muttered softly. "But… you'll live."
The cub's breathing slowed, settling.
It nuzzled weakly against his arm before curling up near his lap.
Arin leaned against the nearest tree, closing his eyes for a moment.
Pain burned through his arms and ribs, his palms torn open from the fight.
But somewhere inside, there was a small, fragile warmth.
He hadn't needed Astra.
He hadn't needed Echo.
He had survived because he was human.
And for the first time in a long while… that felt enough.
Meanwhile…
Back at the base, Shivani stood by the observation glass, staring at the sealed room Arin had left behind.
His note still sat on the console — folded neatly, edges smudged with dirt and a faint bloodstain.
She hadn't been able to read it fully without her throat closing.
Every line sounded too final, too calm.
Om Sai leaned against the frame beside her, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"You know he's not dead," he said.
Shivani's voice was hoarse. "You sound sure."
Om Sai exhaled through his nose. "Because that idiot doesn't know how to die quietly. He'll trip, punch a tree, and piss off the wrong monster before dying. Until that happens, I'm not grieving."
Despite herself, Shivani smiled faintly. "You're a terrible comfort."
"I try my best."
He looked at her again. "You're scared, huh?"
She didn't deny it. "Every night since he left."
Om Sai nodded slowly, gaze drifting toward the dark horizon outside the glass. "Good. Fear means you still care. Let's keep it that way till he walks back through that damn door."
Neither of them spoke after that.
The silence wasn't empty. It was waiting.
Back in the forest…
Night fell again.
The cub slept quietly beside him, its small body warm against his leg.
Arin sat awake, staring into the shadows.
The forest wasn't quiet anymore. It whispered again — branches creaking, leaves rustling like breath.
But this time, it didn't sound hostile.
It sounded alive.
He looked down at his bandaged hand — the one that had crushed his own power earlier.
He smiled faintly, tired and bitter.
"I guess… this is what control looks like."
The cub stirred slightly, pressing its head into his side.
Arin leaned back against the tree, eyes half-closed, letting exhaustion take him.
Above him, the stars flickered through the gaps in the canopy — distant, unreachable, but somehow still guiding.
And in that fragile calm, for the first time since he'd fled the base,
he didn't feel like a monster.
He just felt human.
The first thing Arin felt when he woke was hunger.
A deep, hollow ache that throbbed from his stomach to his spine.
The second thing was weight — something warm pressed against his side.
The cub.
It was still sleeping, breathing slow and shallow. Its wound looked cleaner but far from healed. The makeshift bandage he'd tied from his shirt had already gone dark with dried blood.
The forest around them was quiet again. The kind of quiet that came after storms — heavy, watchful, pretending to be peace.
A weak morning light filtered through the canopy, painting streaks of gold across damp leaves. The air smelled of earth and decay.
Arin pushed himself up, wincing at the stiffness in his arms. His whole body ached — not the sharp pain of battle, but the dull, dragging kind that came from surviving too long without rest or food.
His throat burned.
He hadn't eaten in nearly two days.
The cub stirred, blinking sleepily at him. It let out a soft sound — halfway between a whine and a squeak — and pressed its small nose against his hand.
"I know," Arin muttered, voice hoarse. "You're hungry too."
He crouched and scanned the forest floor. The dew hadn't evaporated yet, and thin trails of moisture clung to the grass like veins. There were berries nearby — small, blue, and suspiciously shiny. He sniffed one, then spat it out immediately.
"Poison. Great."
The cub pawed weakly at a fallen branch, sniffing the dirt like it was trying to help.
Arin smiled faintly. "Thanks for the effort, little one."
He adjusted the cub in his arms and began walking.
Every step felt heavier than the last.
The forest didn't end — it stretched endlessly in every direction, like a maze built out of roots and shadows.
Still, he moved.
The sun climbed higher, but the light couldn't touch the ground.
It was like walking inside a dream that refused to end.
Then, through the silence, a faint sound reached him — flies.
A steady, low buzzing that grew louder as he followed it.
The cub whimpered softly, ears twitching back.
Arin knew that sound.
He'd heard it enough times in battlefields and ruined cities.
He stepped through a patch of dense brush — and froze.
There, half-hidden by twisted vines and scattered leaves, lay the body of the mother beast.
Her massive frame was crumpled against the roots of an old tree. The bark around her was splintered, scorched. Deep claw marks scored the earth nearby — signs of a fight.
The wound in her chest was clean. Too clean.
Not claws.
Not teeth.
A burn. A hole cauterized by something hot — a weapon? A blast?
Arin's breath caught in his throat.
Someone was here.
But that thought dissolved when he looked at her eyes — still open, cloudy, but peaceful in a way that broke him.
She must have crawled here after their fight. Not to escape — but to die near her child.
The cub made a sound — a thin, broken cry.
It limped forward before Arin could stop it, pressing its tiny head against the mother's cold leg.
The sound that came out of it wasn't an animal cry anymore.
It was grief.
Pure and small and unbearable.
Arin knelt beside them, his chest tight. He touched the creature's fur — rough, still faintly warm in places where the sunlight touched.
"You protected her," he whispered. "Even when you were dying."
He sat there for a long time, listening to the cub's soft cries fade into exhausted silence.
He should have left. He needed food, water, shelter.
But his hands wouldn't move.
He couldn't just walk away.
So, with trembling fingers, he began to dig.
The earth was wet, cold, heavy.
He tore through it with his bare hands, ignoring the way the dirt lodged under his nails and the blood mixed with soil.
Each handful of earth felt like lifting guilt out of the ground.
He didn't know why he was doing it.
Maybe it was for her.
Maybe it was for himself.
The cub watched, silent now, its eyes glassy and confused.
When the pit was finally deep enough, Arin stopped. He could barely breathe.
He placed his hand on the mother's forehead.
"I don't know what you were," he murmured, "but you weren't a monster."
Then he pushed, dragging her slowly, carefully into the grave. His arms screamed with effort, muscles trembling, but he didn't stop until she was settled — resting as if asleep.
The cub climbed down beside her, laying its head on her chest.
Arin waited.
When it finally pulled away, he covered the body — handful by handful, until the mound of earth was smooth and dark and final.
When it was over, he sat back on his knees. His palms were raw, bleeding. His breath came shallow.
The cub pressed against his side again.
He reached down and stroked its head.
"You can stay with me," he said softly. "For a while."
The creature blinked up at him, eyes faintly luminous in the fading light.
Something in that look reminded him of Perin — the same quiet trust, the same fragile defiance of fear.
For the first time in days, Arin smiled.
It didn't last long, but it was real.
By late afternoon, he and the cub found a narrow stream.
The water was cold, clear, alive with darting silver fish that moved too fast to catch.
Arin knelt and drank greedily, ignoring the sharp pain in his throat. The cub followed his lead, dipping its snout and splashing clumsily.
"Guess we'll live another day," Arin muttered.
He tore apart a piece of bark and shaped it into a crude bowl, filling it with water for later. His reflection in it startled him — gaunt, dirt-streaked, eyes sunken but burning with something raw.
Not power. Not rage.
Just will.
The forest began to change as he walked again.
The trees grew thinner, the light brighter.
The smell of damp rot gave way to the faint scent of dry grass and open air.
After days of darkness, he could finally see sky.
It wasn't fully open yet — but the horizon ahead wasn't green anymore. It was pale gold, soft and promising.
He exhaled shakily. "Almost out."
The cub trotted beside him, limping less now.
Arin reached down, letting his fingers brush its fur. "Hang on, kid. We're almost through."
Back at the base
Shivani slammed her hand on the table.
"Three days," she snapped. "No signal, no trace, nothing."
Om Sai leaned back lazily, balancing a cup of bitter black coffee on his knee. "You know what that means."
"That he's dead?"
He shot her a glare. "That he's being Arin — doing something stupidly dangerous and somehow surviving it."
Shivani turned away, pacing. "You sound confident for someone who barely sleeps."
He sipped the coffee, grimacing at the taste. "Confidence keeps me sane. Try it."
"You call that sanity?"
"Hey, I've been worse."
Despite herself, she smiled faintly — just a small flicker.
Then she sighed, rubbing her temple. "We can't hide this much longer. The Council's already asking questions about the containment breach."
Om Sai's grin faded. "Let me handle them."
"Om—"
He looked at her — serious, sharp for once. "You think I'm letting them turn him into a lab rat again? Not happening. As far as they know, He'stable and under recovery.' We keep it that way until he comes back."
Shivani's voice softened. "And if he doesn't?"
He looked down into his coffee. The silence stretched.
Then he said quietly, "Then I'll go find him myself.
The light was almost gone when Arin reached a ridge overlooking the valley.
He could see open plains beyond — a horizon that looked almost unreal after days of shadow.
He dropped to one knee, exhaustion catching up all at once. The cub curled up beside him, pressing its small head into his side.
He stared at the horizon, eyes unfocused.
His hands still shook from digging, from carrying, from surviving.
The world was finally quiet.
But inside, something had shifted — a stillness that wasn't peace, but acceptance.
He whispered, "You made it this far. Don't stop now."
The cub let out a soft, sleepy growl in agreement.
Arin smiled faintly. "Good talk."
He leaned back against a rock, eyes half-closed. The last streaks of sunlight brushed his face — the first true light he'd felt in days.
And for a moment, just a moment, the forest didn't feel like a cage anymore.
It felt like a teacher.
Cruel. Beautiful.
Alive.
He closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, he'd walk out of it.
But tonight, he let himself rest — not as Subject 7, not as a soldier, not as a weapon.
Just as a man who'd finally learned how to survive without destroying everything around him.
The cub's breathing slowed beside him, and the forest hummed quietly, as if singing them both to sleep.