The fire had died behind them, but the weight hadn't.
Rui walked at the front now, cradling a sleepy child in her arms. The freed survivors followed behind her—tired, half-broken people, barefoot, soot-streaked, all too quiet.
Chen Yu hummed a happy tune as they walked.
It was off-key and irritating, and he knew it.
"Chen Yu," Rui said sharply, glancing over her shoulder.
"What?" he grinned, skipping a step. "They need joy, don't they? Levity. Hope. A little drama?"
"You're scaring them."
He turned to the boy beside him and leaned close. "Am I scaring you, kid?"
The boy nodded.
"Good," Chen Yu whispered. "Fear is proof you're still alive."
They followed a broken road into the woods. Ash coated the leaves. The sky stayed red, even though it wasn't supposed to be. Nothing had felt right since the fire rain. The clouds had scars in them now.
Li Wei brought up the rear, hand pressed to his wound, gaze flicking between the trees.
He hadn't spoken much since the chapel.
Rui knew why.
There was something in him now—a piece of that place. Or maybe something from before, finally cracking through.
They stopped near a collapsed overpass. Below it, a clearing with shallow grass and an overturned fuel truck offered shelter.
"We rest here," Li Wei said.
Rui began gathering firewood. Chen Yu dropped his bag and pulled out a tin of canned peaches. "Ladies and children first," he sang, popping the lid with a flourish. "And charming lunatics third."
He passed the peaches to Rui. She sniffed them. "They're expired."
"So am I."
Later, as the children slept and Rui stood watch, Chen Yu wandered to the truck and climbed onto the hood. He balanced there with arms outstretched like a scarecrow.
Li Wei leaned against a tree nearby, silent.
"You ever wonder what we're doing?" Chen Yu asked suddenly. "Rescuing people we'll probably lose. Fighting wars we didn't start. Carrying stories that feel borrowed."
Li Wei didn't respond.
"Because I do," Chen Yu continued. "Every time I close my eyes, I wonder if I'll wake up with someone else's face. Or worse—someone else's memories."
He laughed, but there was no humor in it.
"They broke me early, you know. Back at that Ascendancy kennel. Cut into my brain, shoved in dreams, erased my parents' voices. Then gave me a knife and said, 'Go dance, clown.' And I did."
He looked down at Li Wei.
"You think I'm a monster?"
Li Wei looked up, slow and cold. "No. You're what happens when monsters play god."
Hours passed.
The forest around them thickened. The quiet deepened. Something in the air began to shift—like wet cloth against your neck, or the moment just before a whisper.
Then, at dawn, Rui noticed something.
Birds weren't chirping.
The wind had stopped.
And the trees… were breathing.
Not in that mystical, poetic way.
They were literally moving—ever so subtly—pulsing inward and outward, as if inhaling.
She didn't call out. She moved slowly to Li Wei, tapped his arm.
He followed her gaze.
The trees shifted again.
Chen Yu was on his feet, frowning. "Is it just me or are those trees… flexing?"
A groan rippled through the clearing. Wood twisted. Bark cracked.
Then something moved between the trunks—a shadow with long fingers and a gait that didn't match any living thing.
One of the children whimpered.
The older man from the rescued group gasped, "No… not again…"
Li Wei's voice cut through the tension: "Everyone. Run."
But they didn't move fast enough.
The forest screamed.