Aira knelt by a small fire pit she'd scraped together from stones and damp earth. Smoke curled weakly from the twigs, carrying the faint smell of pine and ash. Her hair, loose from its tie, framed her face in uneven strands that caught the pale morning light. She tucked one behind her ear as she worked, lips pursed in focus, brows knit with the same patience she had when re-wrapping his wounds.

Bjorn leaned back against a log, arms crossed, watching her. He hated how quiet it felt without her filling the space — hated more that he caught himself listening for her voice. His body ached less today, though the bruises tugged at his movements. He flexed his hands, staring at the scars lining his knuckles.

Don't get comfortable. She'll betray. They always do.

Aira's voice broke through his thoughts, gentle but firm.

Aira: "You're staring again."

Bjorn blinked, scowling.

Bjorn: "I wasn't."

She looked up, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips — the kind of smile that seemed to say she saw through him, whether he admitted it or not. Her eyes held his a moment longer before she turned back to the fire.

For a while, only the crackle of damp wood filled the air. Then Aira shifted, reaching into her pouch and pulling free a strip of cloth. She held it out toward him.

Aira: "Your bandage slipped. Let me fix it."

Bjorn hesitated. His instinct was to refuse, to snap at her to mind her own business. But the truth was, the cut on his arm burned, and the old wrap had loosened. He muttered something half like a growl, then extended his arm without meeting her eyes.

Her hands were careful, steady as she unwound the cloth and replaced it. She didn't speak while she worked — didn't tease him, didn't push. The silence was strangely heavy, and Bjorn found himself watching her face. Her lashes lowered in concentration, lips pressed together. A strand of hair fell loose again, brushing her cheek, and she didn't notice.

When she tied off the bandage, her fingers lingered for a moment longer than necessary against his skin. Not clumsy. Not deliberate. Just… there.

His chest tightened, though he kept his expression stone.

Bjorn (thought): She's too close…

He shifted back slightly, pulling his arm away, but not as harshly as he would have before. Aira's eyes lifted, meeting his. For once, she didn't smile. There was only quiet understanding in her gaze, as though she'd seen past the wall he kept raising and wasn't afraid of what lay behind it.

The fire snapped, throwing sparks between them.

For a moment, the world shrank to the two of them — her steady hands, his guarded silence, the breathless space where something unspoken lingered.

Bjorn broke it first, his voice low, almost reluctant.

Bjorn: "…You didn't have to."

Her reply came soft, but certain.

Aira: "I know."

That was all. No teasing, no pride — just honesty.

The silence that followed wasn't heavy this time. It settled warm, like the fire crackling low between them.

--

Bjorn sat with his back against the wall of the cavern, eyes half-shut but watchful. Aira sat close, knees drawn in, her fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns in the dirt.

Bjorn finally broke the silence.

Bjorn (low, cautious): "You're too calm for someone thrown into all this."

Aira lifted her gaze, meeting his without flinching.

Aira (softly, almost like admitting a secret): "I stopped being surprised a long time ago."

Bjorn tilted his head slightly, studying her. He wasn't used to people speaking like that — as if they'd already walked through hell.

Bjorn (after a pause): "…What happened?"

For a moment, she hesitated. Her lips trembled as if she might refuse, but something in his voice — or maybe his tired, unguarded expression — loosened her tongue.

The world around them blurred into her memory.

Narration (her voice-over):

"My life used to be… ordinary. Not poor, not rich. Just… good. My father would walk me to school, and my mother would wait for us with food ready when we came back. We didn't have much, but we had each other."

Images of a warm household. Laughter. A father's rough hands patting her head.

Narration continues (her tone shifts, darker):

"Until the day my father went out… and didn't come back."

We see the accident — a drunk, smirking rich kid's car veering onto the sidewalk. The father struck down, blood on the road. The rich kid's terrified face… quickly replaced by arrogance when police arrived.

Aira's voice:

"They blamed him. Said he was careless. We fought it in court… but the judge was bought. Even the lawyer we hired turned his back on us."

Courtroom scene: Aira and her mother crying, humiliated as the verdict slams down against them. Outside, they're weeping, holding each other. The rich kid leans on his car, smirking, licking his lips at them.

Aira's voice breaks slightly:

"Then… he started following(stalking to be precise) us. Watching. We went to the police. We thought they would help…"

The very same police officer is shown taking bribes. A week later — Aira returns home from school to find her mother gone and a note waiting.

The Note (scrawled):

If you want to see her alive, come alone. Tell no one.

---

Scene: The Warehouse / Location

Aira enters a dim, foul-smelling room. The door creaks shut behind her. Her eyes widen.

Her mother lies on the ground — naked, humiliated, throat slit. Blood pooled around her body.

Aira falls to her knees, screaming, clutching her mother's cold body.

The rich kid steps forward, flanked by two friends and the very police officer they once begged for help. Their clothes disheveled, mocking smiles on their faces.

> "At least," one of them sneered, "we can finish what your mother couldn't endure… with you."

Her throat tore with screams for help, but no one came.

Just as their hands reached for her, the air froze. The leering faces hung in place, mouths half-open, bodies caught mid-motion. Aira's cries echoed into an unnatural silence.

From the shadows, a voice seeped like venom—philosophical, amused, cruel:

> Witch (off-screen, echoing):

"Look at them… mongrels in human skin. Parasites fattened by power not their own. They reek of borrowed crowns, yet dare to prey upon you."

Aira's body shuddered, but she couldn't move. A shape emerged—a tattered silhouette, crooked staff in hand, eyes glinting with wicked mirth.

> Witch (stepping closer):

"Do not think, child, that this world ever cared for your tears. It is a feast of wolves… and you were always the meat."

The witch leaned down, her voice pressing against Aira's skull like chains:

> Witch (low, final):

"So I choose you. Struggle, suffer, rise—or die. Your fate is mine to cast."

Aira's vision blurred, her body collapsing into unconsciousness. The last thing she heard was the witch's whisper curling into her ear:

> Witch (soft):

"As for these mongrels… fret not. They already suffer a fate worse than death."

Her eyes snapped open again—not in the room, not by her mother, but in the Orb World.

The present " and you what was your past like before coming here?" 

'hell, It isn't something I should bore you with" Bjorn answered. 

"it not like I've got anything better to do let here it" aira said. 

Bjorn (looking straight at her, voice sharp but heavy):

"Unlike you… I didn't submit to the abuse, waiting for help. I faced it head on."

(He pauses, eyes distant, then continues in a low voice.)

"My parents died in front of me. A car crash. One second, they were laughing, the next… blood, twisted metal, silence. After that, I was dumped on my uncle. He wasn't a guardian—he was a monster. Every day, his fists, his words… he tried to break me. But I didn't wait for anyone to save me. I stole his money, I escaped. Since then… it's been just me, and the weight of all that loss."

(He clenches his fist, jaw tight.)

"I didn't submit. I endured. Alone."

---

Aira (eyes trembling, tears forming as she whispers):

"A life like that… how lonely."

(She looks at him with a mix of sorrow and awe, as if his pain is both unbearable and strangely inspiring.)

 

Bjorn: (suddenly slams his fist against the ground/wall, startling her)

"Don't look at me like that! I'm not some broken thing you can cry for.”