The darkness swallowed them like a living thing.

The flickering glow from the crate shrank behind them until it was nothing—just a dying memory swallowed by black. All that remained were faint distortions in the silence: the twitch of settling dust, the echo of something chewing, and far off—

 "AAAAAGHHH—!!"

Snap.

Crunch.

Then… silence.

Luke limped forward, weight sagging heavily against Eralin's side.

His shirt bulged with knotted food rations; bottles of water clinked faintly in his pants like glass teeth chattering in the cold.

Every step was a war.

His shoulder throbbed with each heartbeat.

 thmp… thmp… thmp…

Wet, warm, and sticking.

He didn't want to look at it again.

But he moved.

Because if you stop in the Center, you die.

Eralin said nothing, but she adjusted his balance every few seconds—keeping him upright.

Her hand never left the hilt of the dagger tied to her hip.

She preferred a bow.

Luke knew that. He'd seen her fire without hesitation, straight through a man's throat once.

But down here, a bow was suicide.

You couldn't shoot what you couldn't see.

He looked at her—just for a second.

"Eralin… thanks."

His voice cracked like dry leather.

Eralin didn't look at him.

Eyes forward. Listening.

 "Luke… it's okay…"

She hesitated, then added in a whisper—

 "You called for me. That's all I needed."

He said nothing more after that.

Neither of them did.

The silence wasn't empty—it was weaponized.

Words echoed.

Echoes brought company.

Eralin's ears twitched like a stray cat's. Every few moments she paused—tilting her head toward distant skittering, the dragging of wet meat across stone, a 

laugh that wasn't a laugh.

Still there.

Still hunting.

Luke's plan began forming:

We circle around the crate. Make it look claimed. Avoid beasts, avoid scavengers. Find the others—quietly.

He mentally ticked through the group:

Caelan wouldn't stay still. Smart enough to keep moving.

The noble brat—probably curled up somewhere pretending he wasn't crying.

The others? Wildcards.

But luck sometimes favors the desperate.

 "Can't take everything from the box," he muttered low. "Greed gets you killed. We live first. Fight later."

His hand tightened on the shortsword. The grip was sticky with dried beast-blood. Still warm.

Then— Eralin's hand suddenly pressed to his chest, stopping him mid-step.

She pointed toward the wall.

Luke narrowed his eyes.

Tap... tap… tap…

Too soft to be beast.

Too slow to be safe.

His pulse quickened.

Human…?

Or something wearing the sound of one.

He glanced at Eralin.

She was frozen. Listening.

 It's not charging… not growling. Observing?

Then from the dark—

A voice.

 "Luke? Eralin…?"

Luke's stomach tightened.

That voice—

 "...Caelan?"

A shape emerged from the black. Limping. Ragged.

One arm raised.

The other held a piece or rebar , crusted with blood and hair.

Eralin didn't move.

Luke didn't blink.

It looked like Caelan. Sounded like him.

But that meant nothing here.

Luke's mind flashed to the mirror-faced Veil, mimicking voices.

Mocking human tones with no mouth.

What if it hadn't died?

What if this is another trap?

Caelan stopped a few paces away.

He raised both hands slightly.

"You're pointing blades at me. Yeah... I get it."

His voice wasn't pleading.

Just… exhausted.

Luke's voice came out low.

 "Say something only Caelan would know."

Caelan paused.

Blinking.

Then—he gave a dry, bitter chuckle.

 " You told me to avoid the walls. I didn't listen, then I lunged at the wooden box without worry and got injured in doing so.

A pause.

 "I almost died. Twice now, First was with the gremlins."

He turned to Eralin.

 "You... you guided us through this hell. 

Weaving away from trouble, you were the ears and I was the eyes."

Silence.

Eralin looked at Luke and gave a slow, brief nod.

Luke's grip loosened.

 "...Alright," he muttered. "That's enough."

Caelan finally lowered the rebar.

 "I'm not some skinwalker," he said. "Just a bastard with a pulse."

Luke exhaled.

His shoulders slumped.

"Good. We're circling the crate. Supplies are still there. If you're fast and quiet… we might live another hour."

Caelan gave a crooked smile.

"I'll take it."

He looked at Luke's torn shoulder, the bandana soaked through and hanging like torn skin.

 "You look like hell."

Luke snorted.

"You're no better... and hey—better than being dead."

//Caelan's POV — 

When the others scattered, Caelan vanished.

Not into a corridor.

Not behind a wall.

But beneath a pile of corpses.

Fifty meters from the crate, he crawled into a festering mound of the forgotten dead.

Children.

Teens.

Ripped open, bones snapped, guts split wide like rotten fruit.

The stench was blinding—sweet, rotting, wet.

But it masked his scent. Hid him.

 Not smart. Not brave. Just… necessary.

His face was pressed against someone's stomach. It was cold and squishy.

A hole in the gut leaked onto his cheek. He didn't flinch.

"Not the worst place I've ever hidden…" he whispered.

But not by much.

From beneath the meat-pile, he heard shrieks.

Shouting.

Fighting.

Then—

"B...AA...BB..I...EESS…"

Something died. Slowly.

Caelan waited.

Then he moved.

Not toward the crate—yet.

But toward whoever survived.

If the survivor was weak, he'd strike.

If they were strong… maybe he'd play ally.

 Killing. Plundering. Stealing. None of it evil—not here. Not when death's always a breath away.

He crept low, club in hand.

Then—he saw them.

Two silhouettes.

One blood-soaked.

One supporting.

He tensed, ready to lunge.

But then the smell hit him. Familiar. The tone of the voice. The posture.

Luke.

And beside him—

 Eralin.

His muscles loosened.

His hand dropped.

And for the first time since the scattering, Caelan let himself breathe.

 "...Luke? Eralin?"