Aiden ate every last drop of his soup — but it barely made a dent in his hunger.
His stomach still growled low beneath the silence, but he ignored it. He wasn't about to ask for seconds in a camp like this.
An hour passed. The fire had dulled to soft, orange embers.
Survivors sat around in scattered groups, quietly chatting now — except for her.
The girl who shut him down earlier. The one who barked orders like she'd been running this place for weeks.
She stood near the fire with her arms crossed, eyes occasionally scanning the perimeter like she was waiting for something.
And then, as if on cue, she spoke up — loud enough for all to hear:
"Alright. Finish the pot and get some sleep. Sunrise is a new day."
Murmurs rippled through the camp, and people began moving, grabbing whatever was left of the soup. She turned sharply and walked straight toward Aiden.
He didn't move.
She stopped in front of him, towering over where he sat on the log.
"I don't know where you came from," she said, voice low but razor-sharp. "But I'm not gonna ask you either. You raise your voice or step out of line, you'd have been dead before dinner. You hear me?"
Her eyes didn't blink.
"I'm the one keeping this place in check. And I don't care how fresh you are. The crash happened six days ago. So either you were passed out in the dirt or… you came from somewhere else."
Aiden said nothing.
"If you want to stay, you work for that stay."
She turned and walked off into the dark, disappearing behind the others as they settled down.
Aiden watched her go — quietly, thoughtfully.
Ten minutes later, the campfire dimmed to faint flickers. One by one, the survivors curled into their places on logs, bedrolls, or makeshift shelters. Even Karen and her son were bundled up side by side.
Everyone was asleep.
Except Aiden.
The fire still held a sliver of warmth. He glanced toward the pot. No one touched the leftovers.
He slid forward silently and poured what remained into his bowl.
But before he could lift it to his lips—
snap.
A branch broke somewhere in the forest.
Then another.
Chittering. Groaning. Footsteps.
The same sounds he heard that night. The deer-like creature.
Aiden's hand trembled. The soup sloshed in the bowl. His body locked up.
His eyes darted into the darkness — shadows moving in unnatural ways.
Closer. Louder.
But no one else stirred. Not even the pilots. Not the leader girl.
Everyone was asleep.
Aiden slowly placed the bowl aside, curled up tightly in the dirt, and did what everyone else had done: pretended to sleep — hoping the thing outside couldn't tell the difference.
Morning.
The light that touched his face was dull and grey.
Aiden sat up slowly. His muscles ached. His back felt like he'd been hit with a steel beam.
But everyone else was already up.
The camp was alive again. Some were talking. Some were sharpening sticks. Some had already left the fire.
All except Karen's son.
He lay still.
Karen shook him gently, her voice trembling.
"Hunter? Baby, c'mon, get up. Please, just—open your eyes, sweetie. Please."
The pilot crouched next to her and placed a hand on the boy's forehead. He checked his pulse, then his breathing.
"He's alive," the captain said calmly. "But it's likely he's come down with a cold. It happens. A young body adjusting to… the change in environment. Nothing unusual. It'll pass in a couple days."
Karen nodded hesitantly, though fear still trembled in her eyes.
Aiden stood a few feet away, watching.
Something about the pilot's answer didn't sit right with him. It was too smooth. Too… rehearsed.
He turned his head—
And felt fingers grip the back of his sweater.
With a sudden yank, he was dragged off the log and slammed into the dirt.
"Up."
The same girl from before loomed over him.
"You're coming hunting. I don't care if you're sore or scared or confused."
She crouched, meeting his eyes.
"You don't eat unless you earn it. But you'll still go out there either way. Understand?"
Aiden stayed silent. Not because he agreed.
Because deep down, he knew — this wasn't just about food.
This was about survival.
And whatever rules this place followed, they were no longer his to define.