There was a knock on the door.
Melissa jolted awake, breath catching in her throat. For a moment, she struggled to remember where she was—until the soft hum of the overhead light and the plain, unfamiliar walls reminded her. The clothes she had worn before were gone, replaced with a plain, fitted tunic and pants that felt like a uniform.
She stood, rubbing her eyes, then walked to the door and opened it.
The scrawny man from the day before stood there, same passive expression on his face, his arms folded behind his back. "Come. It's time."
"Time for what?"
"You'll meet your trainer now," he replied simply.
She didn't ask more. Instead, she followed him through a narrow corridor lit by muted yellow lights. The path twisted through turns she couldn't memorize, passing the occasional window showing hints of the arena or long stretches of stone halls. Eventually, they reached a wide wooden door. The scrawny man pushed it open.
Inside was silence.
The room was vast and dim, the walls made of old stone. Shafts of light filtered in through a high slit in the ceiling, casting long beams that cut across the room. At the center, seated cross-legged on a mat, was a bald man in flowing robes—his head bowed, eyes closed, hands resting lightly on his knees.
He didn't move when they entered.
The scrawny man stepped aside, giving her a look before turning and silently closing the door behind him.
Melissa took a slow breath, her footsteps echoing slightly as she walked farther in. The monk's presence was still and something about him made her stomach knot. Not fear… but anticipation.
He opened his eyes.
They were sharp. Deep. As if they'd seen all that life had to offer.
"I've been waiting for you," he said calmly. "Sit."
Melissa hesitated, then slowly lowered herself onto the mat across from him.
"Before you learn to fight," he continued, voice steady, "you must learn to see."
She blinked. "See what?"
He smiled faintly. "Everything."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hale rummaged through the bedroom first, flinging drawers open, checking under the bed, in the closet—nothing that could be used as a weapon. He moved into the living room, tossed the cushions aside, checked under the sofa, even behind the bookshelf. Still nothing. The kitchen held more promise. He yanked open cabinets, checked drawers, even considered a heavy pan, but it wouldn't be enough. Not for what might be waiting in those woods.
Frustrated, he stepped outside for a breath, his eyes scanning the edges of the house. That's when he noticed it—half hidden behind a bush, a small shed, wooden and weather-beaten.
He moved quickly.
The door creaked open as he pushed inside. Dust danced in the single beam of light that slipped through the slats in the roof. Tools hung on the wall, mostly rusted or dull. But there, against the far wall, was a long black case. He opened it carefully.
A pump-action shotgun.
He exhaled—relieved. He checked the chamber and found four rounds loaded. Another small box of shells was tucked beneath the case. He slung it over his shoulder, grabbed the extra box and stuffed it into the side of a nearby backpack. His eyes scanned the room again.
An axe leaned against the corner, the blade still clean and sharp. He added it to the pack.
Hale took a moment, tightening the straps on the backpack. He looked at the woods once more, the trees swaying lightly, like they were waiting for him.
No more hesitation.
Hale stepped back into the house, his boots thudding softly against the wooden floor. The kitchen was quiet as usual. He opened the fridge out of habit—it was humming, but empty. No fresh supplies. He moved to the cabinets and began pulling them open one after the other. A few dusty jars, a half-full box of salt, and then—canned food.
Beans. Corned beef. Sliced peaches. He didn't think twice. He packed what he could, stuffing the tins into the backpack until it was nearly at capacity. He found an old can opener in the drawer and tossed it in too. If he was going back into those woods, he had no idea how long he'd be gone—or what he'd face.
He returned to the living room and paused by the wall-mounted phone. It hung there like it was waiting for him to try again. He picked it up and dialed the same number from before. This time, there was no static, no voice—just a single beep, then silence.
No line. Nothing.
He slowly lowered the receiver, letting it click back into place. For a second, he stared at the phone, jaw tightening. Then he turned away and walked to the door.
The late afternoon sun had started to dip, casting long shadows across the grass. The edge of the woods looked darker now, thicker somehow. More alive.
He adjusted the backpack, slung the shotgun strap across his shoulder, and with axe in hand, took a deep breath. Then he stepped down the porch and moved steadily toward the bushes.