Her POV
"I'm going hunting," he declared in a tone that brooked no argument.
I blinked, caught off guard by his abruptness. "Wait, what?"
He paused on the weathered wooden steps, raising an eyebrow as if I had just asked him whether the sky was blue. "What? Do you want to sleep without eating something?" His voice was clipped and matter-of-fact, as though the question were ludicrous. "Because I don't. I want to eat. If you want to come, fine. If not…" He shrugged, the motion dismissive. "Also fine."
With that, he turned away, as if the conversation had reached its conclusion.
For a fleeting moment, I considered staying behind—clinging to the safety of our shelter, wrapped in the familiar silence, and distancing myself from him.
But then the memories of the men flooded back to me: the cruel laughter that echoed in the air, the predatory glances that made my skin crawl.
My fingers tightened around the first aid kit, its weight reassuring in my grip. "Wait."
He halted mid-step, glancing back at me.
"I'm coming with you," I asserted, rising to my feet a bit too hurriedly. My legs protested at the sudden movement, but I brushed aside the discomfort. "I don't want to take any chances."
He didn't respond verbally, just gave a terse nod before resuming his stride, fully aware that I would follow him.
And I did, steeling myself for whatever lay ahead.
The forest transformed at dusk, shrouded in deeper shadows and an enveloping stillness that seemed to harbor untold secrets. He glided through the trees with an ease that suggested he had long since memorized every winding path and hidden dip in the terrain. I struggled to keep pace, my feet stumbling over gnarled roots and low-hanging branches that whispered in the gathering twilight.
We walked for what felt like an eternity in almost complete silence, the only sounds marking our journey were the occasional rustle of leaves or the faint scuttling of woodland creatures hidden from view.
Then, suddenly, he stopped.
He knelt, his body low and alert, eyes scanning the clearing ahead with a focused intensity that was unreadable as ever. With a subtle gesture, he motioned for me to crouch beside him—a silent command that I followed without hesitation.
And that's when I saw it.
A deer stood poised at the edge of a shallow stream, its form elegant and serene as it took delicate sips from the water, the fading light glinting off its sleek coat. My breath caught in my throat, the sight beautiful and fragile.
He raised the rifle slowly, a deliberate movement.
My eyes widened in shock. "Wait," I whispered urgently. "You're actually going to—?"
A single shot shattered the quiet, echoing through the trees like a thunderclap.
The deer fell instantly, its graceful form crumpling to the ground.
I gasped, my heart racing uncontrollably.
He stood up, his demeanor calm and unflinching, and walked toward the fallen animal. I followed hesitantly, my heart pounding in my chest, uncertainty swirling within me.
When we reached the deer, it lay still, a picture of tranquility even in death, as if it had simply laid down to take a final rest, never to awaken.
I stared at it, a deep horror washing over me. "You're so cruel," I whispered, my voice barely above a breath. "How can you just... kill something like this?"
He turned to me, his expression unfazed, almost indifferent. "Because I have to."
"No," I retorted, struggling with a surge of emotion. "You chose to."
He crouched beside the deer, examining it with a clinical efficiency that made my stomach turn. "You came with me seeking protection and the promise of safety, shelter, and food. But you don't want to confront what it truly takes to obtain those necessities."
"That's not fair," I challenged, my voice shaking slightly.
He met my gaze, his eyes sharp and unyielding. "No, it's not. But life out here isn't fair. Nature is indifferent to your feelings about my actions."
I bit the inside of my cheek, torn between a wave of anger and a feeling I couldn't quite name. His words lacked cruelty; they were simply... starkly real. Too real.
I looked back at the deer, which lay elegantly still in the fading light, a striking reminder of the harsh realities of survival in this unforgiving wilderness.
Suddenly, a memory struck me, and I murmured, "I didn't grow up like this."
"I figured," he replied quietly, his voice steady. "That's why you need to learn fast."
With a fluid motion, he stood up, lifting the weight of the deer over his shoulder with a strength that made my chest tighten in awe. He began to walk ahead, his pace unwavering, expecting me to follow him into the depths of the forest. And I did.
But this time, I wasn't merely trailing a stranger. I was walking behind someone who belonged to a world entirely different from mine. Somehow, I had become a part of it.
We walked in silence, the stillness broken only by the crunch of dried leaves beneath our feet and the occasional rustle of unseen animals skirting through the underbrush. I hugged my arms around myself, not just to ward off the evening chill but because of the presence beside me.
There was something about the way he moved; the forest seemed to be an extension of him. He had an air of confidence, as if he were a skilled predator, while everything else existed here on borrowed time.
When we finally reached the cabin, night had fully descended, wrapping the surroundings in darkness. The forest buzzed with the sounds of crickets and distant howls echoing through the trees, but the man in front of me moved with assurance—shoulders back, steps purposeful—like the events of the day had left no mark on him.
Instead of heading inside, he walked around to the side of the cabin where a small clearing revealed a flat wooden workbench nestled beneath a sloped tin roof. A rusty hook dangled from a beam overhead, and a weathered cutting tarp lay neatly spread out, indicating that this was not his first time processing game out here. He carefully placed the deer onto the tarp, its weight sinking into the fabric.
I stood frozen a few feet away, arms folded tightly, grappling with uncertainty about whether I should step closer to observe or turn away altogether. Then, with practiced ease, he drew out a hunting knife, wiping the blade clean with a cloth before getting to work.
I hadn't realized I was holding my breath until I saw the blade deftly slice through the deer's side, moving with swift precision. He worked methodically—cutting, skinning, cleaning, and separating the meat—each movement executed with care, avoiding any hint of cruelty, revealing only a determined purpose.
Still, I turned my gaze away.
"You don't have to watch," he murmured without glancing at me.
"I'm not," I said quietly, directing my attention toward the dense trees beyond, trying to block out the visceral sounds of flesh being cut and the occasional crack of bone. I didn't feel weak, but this experience was undeniably raw. This was survival in its starkest form.
He continued to work—silent, focused, and efficient. For a long time, the only sounds filling the air were the rhythmic slicing of the knife, the sharp crack of bones, and the rustling of skin. It should have revolted me, yet it didn't.
Maybe, at that moment, a part of me finally began to understand the reality of life in the wilderness.
He wasn't doing this for fun; he was doing it out of necessity. In the depths of the woods, there were no delivery apps to bring hot meals or grocery stores stocked with ready-to-cook chicken. Here, convenience was a distant memory. This was survival in its rawest form.
Eventually, the sharp crackle of a fire erupted into the stillness of the forest. I turned my head to see that he had taken the time to clear the floor around him, wiping his hands methodically before focusing on the small stone fire pit, which was now ablaze with lively, flickering flames that danced upward into the darkening sky. With precision, he skewered a portion of the freshly cleaned meat and began to rotate it slowly over the fire, allowing the heat to sear the surface. The rest of the meat had been carefully sealed in vacuum bags, all neatly organized inside a metal container that lay half-buried in the earth near the cabin—a makeshift freezer designed to thwart curious bears, keeping the food out of reach and odorless.
"You store food like that?" I asked, my surprise evident.
He nodded without hesitation. "Bears won't touch what they can't smell, as long as you store it properly and dig deep enough."
"You live like this every day?" I inquired quietly, the reality of his existence settling over me like a heavy blanket.
He paused for a moment before responding, the weight of the question lingering in the air.
"Is there any other way to live?" he finally replied, his voice devoid of emotion, leaving me to ponder the truth of his words.
As I watched him expertly rotate the meat, I realized he moved with an ease that suggested this was second nature to him; he was in tune with the rhythms of the wilderness, as if survival had become embedded in his very being.
"I would've burned the whole cabin down by now if I had tried this alone," I thought, but I kept that to myself, recognizing the depth of his experience.
After several long minutes of silence filled only by the crackling fire, he suddenly halted his movements and turned to me, his gaze intense but unwavering.
"You know how to cook?" he asked, his tone almost incredulous, as if he were inquiring whether I could breathe.
I blinked in surprise. "What?"
"You heard me," he replied, his eyes searching mine for a response.
My eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "Why are you asking me this?"
"Since I saved your life…" he began, his tone casual but underlined with a hint of smug satisfaction, "you might as well contribute something in return."
I raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "Contribute?"
"Cook some rice," he said matter-of-factly. "It should be straightforward: just water, fire, and grain. I'm sure you can manage that without a hitch."
My stomach twisted nervously as I stared at him. "Rice? Why rice?"
"Because I'm responsible for preparing the meat, and I'm not going to do all the cooking myself. That would imply you're a guest," he replied flatly. "And you're definitely not a guest here."
I halted, caught off guard. "Seriously? That's your condition for not leaving me to fend for myself out here in the woods?"
He shrugged, his demeanor nonchalant. "It's all about forest economy. You get rescued, you pitch in."
I opened my mouth to protest but thought better of it. I didn't want to appear useless or, even worse, helpless. He already regarded me like a stray cat wandering into his territory, and I hated that feeling. I should have said no, should have admitted the truth—that I couldn't cook to save my life, that I once managed to burn soup. Yes, soup. Yet, something about the confident smirk on his face compelled me to say, "Fine."
"Good," he replied with a nod, an air of satisfaction in his voice. "You'll find all the supplies you need inside."
I approached the cabin, the air thick with anticipation, and he swung the door open without a hint of ceremony. Inside, the space was as sharp and intimidating as he was—devoid of clutter but boasting an austere minimalism with undeniably expensive details. Guns were meticulously arranged along one wall, their polished surfaces gleaming ominously. Knives, equally well-organized, adorned another wall, each blade reflecting a sense of purpose. In the corner, a fireplace crackled, its flames dancing with a warmth that felt out of place in such a hardened environment. This wasn't a home; it was a tactical base.
"The kitchen's over there," he said casually, pointing with an air of indifference before returning to his task, completely unconcerned about my culinary venture. Whether I succeeded or made a catastrophic mess seemed of little interest to him.
I stepped into the kitchen and took in the unfamiliar layout, my mind racing. Sleek black cabinets stood in stark contrast to the industrial stove that dominated one side. Cast iron pans hung from racks, some appearing older than I was, their well-worn surfaces telling stories of countless meals. The fridge, a metallic behemoth, was filled with ingredients that looked like they had been subjected to some bizarre science experiment gone wrong.
Taking a deep breath to muster my courage, I told myself, How hard could it be?
I added water to the pot, dumped in a generous handful of rice, tossed in a pinch of salt, and set the mixture on the edge of the fire, confident that this would be a straightforward task.
Easy.