The first sensation was pressure. Not pain—not yet—but constant pressure, as if the world itself were trying to squeeze him out of existence. Milt opened his eyes, the motion clumsy and incomplete. His body responded a beat too late. Something pulled at his balance, and he dropped to his knees on cold, damp earth.
He breathed in. The air scraped his throat on the way down. A harsh, vegetal scent filled his nose. When he lifted his head, he saw tall, thin shadows cutting into a pale sky.
Trees. Too many of them.
He didn't remember being here. He didn't remember anything before this moment.
He tried to stand. His legs shook. A heavy tail slammed into the ground behind him, making him flinch. Milt looked back, disbelief flooding in—
—and the world snapped into focus.
The body wasn't human.
But it wasn't fully beast either.
Milt looked down. Hands with long fingers, hard nails—not claws, but not human nails. Pale skin, covered in white fur along his arms and torso. His chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. When he shifted his jaw, he felt fangs brush against his lower lip.
His first instinct was to stand properly.
His second was to stop.
Something was wrong.
His balance was still off. Every attempt to straighten up ended with a crooked step or a knee sinking into soft ground. His muscles reacted late, as if they didn't fully accept his commands. Milt clenched his teeth and forced the motion again.
This time, he managed to stand.
Barely.
The swaying didn't go away.
He scanned his surroundings carefully. The forest was dense—ancient. Thick trunks wrapped in moss, exposed roots, thorny undergrowth. No visible paths. No signs of nearby shelter. The silence wasn't absolute, but it was heavy: distant insects, leaves shifting in the wind. Nothing else.
He took a step forward.
The tail threw him off balance again. He corrected too late and had to slam a hand against a tree trunk to keep from falling. Rough bark scraped his palm. The contact triggered an instinctive response—his forearm muscles tightened, and for a split second, he felt a surge of strength he hadn't expected.
He let go immediately.
His heart started pounding.
Not only did he lack control over this body—he didn't understand its limits.
He tried something simpler.
Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. The air went in easier this time. He felt his chest expand, his abdomen tighten. When he exhaled, the shaking eased slightly. He repeated the process. Slowly, the body responded with more precision.
Not control.
But improvement.
He opened his eyes.
His vision adjusted in a strange way. Colors sharpened. Contrast deepened. Shapes emerged from the bushes that had been nothing but shadows before. Too much input. He blinked several times until the overload faded.
"Okay…" he muttered.
His voice sounded deeper than he expected.
The sound reminded him of something important.
He was alone. Completely alone.
No shelter. No tools. No visible food. Hunger wasn't painful yet, but it was there—waiting.
He crouched carefully and touched the ground. Wet. Soft. Non-human footprints crossed nearby—deep, uneven. He didn't know what made them, but he didn't like their size. He straightened slowly and turned in place, mentally marking directions.
Moving without a plan would be a mistake.
He chose downhill, following the natural slope. Less resistance. And if there was water, it would be that way. He walked slowly, measuring every step, correcting his balance. Every ten steps, he stopped to breathe and adjust his posture.
Progress was slow.
But it was real.
After several minutes, a different sound cut through the forest.
Heavy. Rhythmic. Crunching.
Not wind.
Not small.
Milt tensed. His white ears moved on their own, rotating toward the sound. The reaction was automatic.
Too automatic.
And too late.
The ground vibrated again.
Closer.
Milt stepped back and nearly fell. He forced himself to stop, planted his feet, and lowered his center of gravity the way he had moments before. His breathing sped up—but this time, it didn't spiral out of control. His body trembled, yes, but it wasn't pure chaos anymore.
The sound returned.
Branches snapping.
Something big was moving between the trees.
He had no weapons. No training. All he had was this unfamiliar body and a partial understanding of how not to let it betray him completely. Running without control would be suicide. Facing whatever that was would be just as bad.
So he chose a third option.
Hide.
He slid toward a cluster of dense bushes, using the trees as cover. Every movement demanded focus. His tail struck dry branches again—the sound was too loud. Milt froze, holding his breath.
The shape passed less than ten meters away.
Big.
Too big.
He only caught a glimpse of a dark silhouette through leaves and trunks, but it was enough to understand one thing with brutal clarity.
He wasn't anywhere near the top of the food chain.
When the sound faded, relief hit him instantly—
—and lied.
His legs gave out. He ended up sitting against a tree, back pressed to the trunk. His body was exhausted. The control he'd gained was slipping fast.
He'd survived his first encounter.
But he'd paid for it.
Every attempt at control drained him far more than he'd expected.
The silence crept back in, but it no longer felt safe. Milt rested his head against the bark and closed his eyes for just a moment. The world didn't disappear.
It was still there.
Pressing.
He understood something fundamental.
If he kept reacting too late, he would die. If he relied only on the raw strength of this body, he would die. He needed to learn how to move, how to breathe, how to anticipate.
Not tomorrow.
Now.
He opened his eyes and forced himself to stand again. His balance was better than before.
Not perfect.
Better.
He looked toward the direction the creature had gone. Then downhill.
Moving was dangerous.
Staying still was too.
From somewhere deep within the forest, a distant roar answered the silence.
And this time, it sounded closer.