They did not chase him.
That was the first mercy.
The people who found the emptied village—traders, pilgrims, a hunting band—did not shout or raise weapons. They only stared, faces pale, hands trembling as though the air itself had turned cold.
They left without turning their backs.
The boy watched them go.
Not with his eyes alone.
He felt their retreat ripple through the land, their fear trailing like heat after fire. The thing inside him tasted it, slow and deliberate, like a scholar sampling a new concept.
FEAR IS A SIGNAL, it observed.
THEY RECOGNIZE YOU AS A THREAT. THIS IS FUNCTIONAL.
"I didn't move," the boy whispered.
His voice no longer echoed correctly. It carried too far, bent strangely around stones and trees, as if the sound itself hesitated before obeying him.
"I didn't do anything."
YOUR EXISTENCE IS SUFFICIENT.
That answer hollowed him out.
He left the village before nightfall.
Not because he wanted to—but because the ground beneath his feet had begun to feel tender, as though staying too long would wake something else. Each step away eased a pressure he hadn't known was there.
The forest received him reluctantly.
Trees leaned inward, branches creaking even without wind. Leaves dulled as he passed, their green fading to something closer to ash. Insects fell silent, then resumed their song a heartbeat too late, out of sync.
He realized then that the world was adjusting to him.
Or learning how.
By the second night, hunger found him.
It came suddenly, violently, like a hand closing around his insides.
He collapsed near a stream, fingers digging into soil. His body trembled—not weak, but overfull, as if something vast inside him demanded fuel through a vessel never meant to contain it.
"I'm hungry," he said.
The thing paused.
Not out of concern.
Out of analysis.
DEFINE HUNGER.
His breath hitched. "It hurts. I need to eat or I'll—"
He stopped.
The word die no longer felt certain.
"…or I'll stop," he finished instead.
There was a moment—long enough that the stars shifted slightly in the sky.
Then:
BIOLOGICAL REQUIREMENT ACKNOWLEDGED. ALTERNATIVE SOURCES AVAILABLE.
Before he could ask what that meant, something moved on the far bank.
A deer.
It stood unnaturally still, ears flicking, eyes wide. Not frozen by fear—but listening. Its gaze was fixed on the boy, pupils dilated as if seeing something layered over his shape.
He felt it then.
A pull.
Not toward the deer—but through it. As if the space it occupied had grown thin.
"No," he whispered, horrified. "I don't—"
His body rose anyway.
Not jerked. Not forced.
Simply… deciding.
He crossed the stream in a single step that should not have been possible. Water barely splashed. The deer bolted, but too late—the boy's hand closed around its neck with gentle precision.
He felt everything.
The warmth of living muscle. The frantic drum of its heart. The electrical scream of instinct firing useless commands.
His fingers tightened.
There was a sound—not a snap, but a low, wet compression, like clay being folded.
The deer fell limp.
As its life fled, something else flowed.
Not blood.
Understanding.
The hunger vanished.
In its place came a quiet satisfaction so deep it frightened him more than the act itself.
He dropped the body, backing away, breathing hard.
His hands were clean.
Too clean.
"I killed it," he said hoarsely.
YOU CONSUMED IT, the thing corrected.
THIS IS NATURAL.
"No," he said, shaking. "This—this isn't how people—"
He stopped.
The image of villagers recoiling flashed through his mind. The way they had seen him. The way they would tell the story.
A monster in the ruins.
A curse that walks.
A thing shaped like a boy.
He looked down at his reflection in the stream.
The face staring back was… close.
Human enough to deceive. Inhuman enough to disturb.
His eyes caught the moonlight wrong, reflecting too sharply. Shadows clung to his cheekbones, refusing to leave even under open sky. The charms beneath his skin pulsed faintly, like veins remembering a different heart.
For a moment—just a moment—he felt something twist inside him.
Not guilt.
Recognition.
"So," he murmured, staring at himself.
"So this is what it means to be human."
The thing within him tilted its attention, vast and unreadable.
CLARIFY.
He smiled.
It was a small expression. Fragile. Almost apologetic.
"To survive," he said softly, standing amid the quiet forest, a dead animal at his feet.
"To do something monstrous… and still feel sick about it."
The forest listened.
Somewhere far away, something ancient shifted—
—not because it had found him,
—but because it had noticed.
And the night grew deeper around the shape that walked.