The woman's weight pressed against Harold's chest, light as she was, and every step through the fungal forest sent fire lancing up his thighs.
His arms trembled, his back screamed, but he kept moving.
The glow of the towering mushrooms dimmed further, their slow pulsing like the beat of some alien heart.
Every flicker of shadow felt like teeth closing around him.
"Keep moving," Harold muttered, teeth clenched. "Just… keep moving."
The forest was not quiet.
From somewhere behind, a guttural roar rolled through the trees, deep enough to make the ground tremble beneath his boots.
It was answered by a shriek—high-pitched, insectile, sharp as shattered glass.
Harold froze, hugging the woman tighter.
His heart thudded.
Then came the crash of bodies colliding, the splinter of mushrooms cracking apart, the awful sound of something tearing flesh.
He didn't look.
He didn't dare.
Instead, he staggered into the brush, feet crunching over fungal moss, and pressed his back against a trunk that reeked faintly of vinegar.
He held his breath, chest heaving.
The battle raged in the distance, monsters tearing each other apart, and for once Harold thanked whatever gods existed here that they were too busy with one another to notice him.
He moved again, faster now, weaving through the fungal undergrowth.
By the time the jagged outline of his stone shelter came into view, Harold's vision swam with spots.
His throat was becoming so dry he could barely swallow.
Every step felt like dragging leaden chains.
But he made it.
The entrance yawned before him, dark and narrow.
Harold ducked inside, clutching the woman tight until the familiar glow of his workspace unfolded around him.
And then he stopped dead.
"What the…?"
It wasn't the same.
The last time he had stood here, the room had been little more than a crude stone box—a desk carved into the wall, a raised slab for a bed, bare surfaces rough and sharp-edged.
Now… it had grown.
The space was a fraction larger, the walls smoother, less jagged.
In one corner stood a proper table, still rough-hewn but with a flat surface, and beside it a pair of simple stone chairs with shallow backs.
The desk looked less like a rock shoved into a wall and more like a workbench, with a slight lip to prevent tools from rolling off.
Harold blinked, shifting the woman's weight.
"So it's not just me," he whispered. "The shelter upgrades too."
He almost laughed.
The thought was absurd—an RPG dungeon that leveled itself up along with him—but here it was.
He traced a hand over the new table, the surface cool beneath his fingers.
"Guess you're keeping pace with me, eh? Not much, but…"
His lips twisted into a tired smile.
"It's home."
He carried the woman to the raised bed and laid her down gently.
Her head-tentacles shifted faintly at the contact but stilled again, her breathing shallow but steady.
Harold adjusted her splints and checked her bandages, making sure nothing had slipped during the trek.
Then he brushed the sweat from his forehead with a shaky hand.
"Alright, you rest. I… I'll just…"
He staggered to the table, dragging one of the new chairs beneath him, and slumped into it.
The chair creaked faintly but held.
For a long moment Harold just sat there, elbows on the table, head hanging.
The tension of the walk bled out of him all at once, leaving him hollow.
His eyes drifted shut despite his best efforts.
Still, part of him refused to fully let go.
He forced one eye open long enough to flicker the system panel back into existence.
Host: Harold Greene
Age: 17 (Life-expectancy of current species 300 years)
System Mode: Intern
Core Skills:
Stitching [Level 1] 22.3/100
Dressing [Level 2] 0.1/1000
Diagnosis [Level 2] 0/1000
Debridement (Wound Cleaning) [Level 0] 6.4/10
Splinting [Level 2] 0.2/1000
Suction [Lv. 0] (0/10)
Casting [Lv. 0] (0/10)
Acupressure [Lv. 0] (0/10)
The sight steadied him, even as exhaustion dragged at his bones.
He'd gained something today.
Tools.
A patient.
A step forward.
And now, a shelter that seemed to believe in him just as much as the system did.
"Not bad," Harold whispered, voice barely more than a rasp. "Not bad for a janitor, eh?"
His head sank against his folded arms on the table.
The last thing he saw before darkness took him was the faint rise and fall of the woman's chest across the room, alive because of him.
And for the first time since waking in this nightmare world, Harold Greene allowed himself to sleep without fear.
~
Harold awoke to the prickling sensation of being hunted.
It was the kind of feeling that dragged you out of sleep whether you wanted it or not—an instinct older than thought itself.
His skin crawled, the fine hairs on the back of his neck standing upright.
Someone was watching him.
Slowly, Harold lifted his head from the table, muscles stiff and sore.
The faint bioluminescence spilling through the cracks in the stone walls painted the room in cold hues.
The first thing he saw was the bed.
The woman was no longer lying there.
She sat upright, her strange hair-tentacles coiling and flexing like wary snakes.
Her eyes—large, dark, unblinking—were locked on him with an intensity that froze his blood.
Predatory.
Her arm and leg splints had shifted, one already lying discarded on the floor.
She had tried to stand—that much was obvious from the fresh scrape marks on the stone near the bed.
But her body hadn't cooperated.
Now she was perched like a wounded animal, glaring daggers at him.
"Hey—easy there," Harold said, raising his hands slowly, palms open.
His voice cracked from dryness, but he forced it calm. "You're safe. You're hurt, but I—"
The woman snarled.
Actually snarled—like some cornered beast.
Her lips curled, sharp teeth glinting faintly in the glow.
She spat a string of guttural words at him, harsh and liquid, none of which he understood.
Then, to his alarm, she lunged.
Not far—her legs gave way before she'd even cleared the bed—but she managed to swipe at the air between them with surprising force.
"Whoa, whoa!"
Harold stumbled back, nearly toppling his chair.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
Her shout became a curse, he was almost sure of it.
Even without translation, the hatred in her tone was clear.
Hands trembling, Harold kept his distance.
"Alright. No touching. Got it."
He swallowed, eyes flicking to the half-loose bandages at her side.
"Damn it… you're going to tear your stitches open if you keep that up."
Her glare didn't soften.
If anything, it sharpened, cutting into him like glass.
Harold exhaled slowly, trying to steady himself.
He thought of the hospital.
The patients who came in delirious, swinging at nurses.
The ones too frightened or too broken to recognize help when it was offered.
He'd watched the doctors calm them—never with force, always with patience.
She was no different.
Maybe she'd been betrayed.
Maybe those wounds were given by someone she trusted.
Trust wasn't something he could expect right now—not after dragging her unconscious body through a nightmare forest to a strange stone room.
If their roles were reversed, he'd be snarling too.
"Look," Harold said softly, lowering himself back into the chair but keeping his hands visible. "I don't know who you are. I don't know what you've been through. But I stitched you up. I carried you here. If I wanted you dead, you wouldn't be breathing."
The woman hissed again, clutching her injured arm to her chest.
Her tentacles twitched, some curling protectively, others flaring like warning flags.
He held her gaze, refusing to flinch.
"I'm not your enemy."
The silence between them was taut as wire.
Finally, she tore her eyes away from him, staring down at her leg where the splint had slipped halfway off.
She hissed again, this time quieter, almost under her breath.
Her shoulders slumped, if only slightly.
Harold let out the breath he'd been holding.
"Good enough," he muttered.
He didn't dare approach, not yet.
The last thing he needed was another swipe of claws—or whatever else she had hidden under that alien skin.
Instead, he leaned back against the table, still watching her carefully.
"I'll give you space," he said, though he knew she couldn't understand the words. "But you're going to need me. Whether you like it or not."
The woman shifted uncomfortably sitting on the floor learning her back on the bed, eyes narrowing as though weighing his words despite not understanding them.
Her breathing was ragged, but the fight hadn't left her.
Not yet.
Harold rubbed his temples, exhaustion gnawing at him again.
This wasn't going to be easy.
Trust wasn't a bandage you could slap on.
It was something you earned, piece by piece.
And if she'd been betrayed before, then he'd have to fight twice as hard to prove himself.
"Alright, Greene," he whispered to himself. "Diplomacy it is."
The woman's eyes flicked back to him, suspicious, unyielding.
And Harold, for the first time in this alien world, found himself not fighting a monster in the wild, but the far more dangerous battle of trust.