The woman's eyes did not waver.
Dark and sharp, they tracked Harold as though measuring the distance between his throat and her reach.
Her tentacles twitched once, curling close.
Then she spoke.
"...Why?"
The word was clear.
So clear Harold almost toppled out of his chair.
His mouth fell open, disbelief clogging his throat.
She wasn't spitting guttural sounds anymore.
She wasn't hissing, growling, or shrieking like before.
This was language. English.
Or—well, maybe not English.
Maybe it was just what the system translated as common.
Whatever the case, it was a voice he could understand.
"You—" Harold stammered. "You can talk?"
Her eyes narrowed further.
"Answer me."
The sound of her voice was unlike anything he'd heard.
A harsh edge undercut every syllable, like a predator disguising itself in human tones.
Still, it was unmistakable.
"Why… what?" Harold asked cautiously.
"Why help me?" Her voice was low, raspy, but steady. "I was already dying. What do you want?"
Harold froze.
That wasn't gratitude.
That wasn't relief.
It was suspicion sharpened into a blade.
He raised his hands again, palms out.
"I don't want anything."
"Lies." She spat the word like poison.
Her teeth flashed in the glow, sharp enough to tear.
"You restrained me, removed my clothing, Hold me in this cave. What game do you play?"
"I'm not—"
Harold stopped himself.
She wouldn't care where he was from.
"Look, I'm not trying to trap you. I'm not trying to… own you, or whatever else it is you think i might be doing. i stopped your bleeding, and brought you somewhere safe, as for your clothes they were like that when i found you, i didnt take anything of you. I just… did what I do,"
She tilted her head, pupils narrowing.
"And what is that?"
Harold hesitated, then drew in a shaky breath.
"I'm a healer."
The woman blinked once.
Then again, slower.
Her brow furrowed as though he'd spoken nonsense.
"A… what?"
"A healer," Harold repeated, confusion twisting in his gut.
"Someone who treats injuries. Who stops bleeding, mends wounds, keeps people alive."
The silence stretched between them.
Her tentacles stirred, curling like smoke as she let out a sound between a laugh and a snarl.
"No such thing."
Harold frowned.
"What do you mean, 'no such thing'? I stitched you up. I set your bones. You're alive because—"
"You delay death." Her tone was sharp, cutting him off. "That is not real. It is weakness. The strong endure. The weak…"
Her eyes hardened.
"The weak die. Always."
Harold's chest tightened.
He searched her expression, looking for irony, for hesitation.
But there was none.
She believed every word.
"You're telling me," Harold said slowly, "that where you're from, nobody treats injuries?"
"Why would they?" she hissed. "The beasts of this land take the slow. The broken. The unfit. That is the order of things."
"That's…" Harold faltered, anger and disbelief rising together. "That's barbaric."
Her head snapped toward him, teeth bared.
"Barbaric?"
"Yes!" Harold snapped back, his exhaustion boiling over into his voice. "Where I come from, people help each other. They don't just throw the weak to the wolves. They fight to save them. Even when it's hard. Even when it's impossible. Because every life matters."
The words echoed against the stone walls.
The woman stared at him, her breathing rough, her gaze sharp enough to flay.
"Life… matters," she repeated slowly, as though tasting the phrase for the first time.
Her tentacles rippled once more, then stilled.
"You speak like a fool," she muttered. "To keep the dying alive is to weaken the pack. To waste strength."
Harold shook his head.
"No. To let them die when you could save them—that's the waste. That's cruelty. If I can help, I will. Afterall theirs strength in numbers, often times more so than strength of one on their own."
The word seemed to hang in the air.
Her lips curled faintly, though whether it was mockery or confusion he couldn't tell.
"You risk your life… for nothing."
Harold exhaled slowly.
"For you," he corrected softly.
Her eyes flickered.
For the first time, her suspicion faltered—only a crack, but he saw it.
She glanced down at her arm, at the stitches holding her torn flesh together.
At the rough splint partly binding her swollen arm.
At the bandages Harold had tied with hands that shook but didn't stop.
Her fingers brushed the cloth, lingering.
"Why?" she whispered again, this time not as a demand but as a genuine question.
Harold leaned back in his chair, exhaustion settling on him like a weight.
"Because it's what I do," he said quietly. "All my life, I wanted to be the one who healed instead of just… cleaning up after the mess. I didn't get the chance before. But here…"
He gestured faintly to her.
"Here, maybe I can finally do it."
The woman studied him for a long moment, eyes searching his face for deceit.
Finally, she spoke.
"There are no healers in this world."
Her voice was flat.
Final.
"Then maybe," Harold murmured, meeting her gaze with tired determination, "it's time there was one."
Harold let the silence hang, then offered the simplest bridge he knew.
"My name's Harold," he said, voice low but steady. "Harold Greene."
The woman's tentacles shifted, coiling and uncoiling, before she answered.
"Jinissshi Nu'samea M'dorus M'tova."
The name slithered off her tongue, thick with sibilants, like steam hissing from a pipe.
Harold mouthed it once, then shook his head with a faint smile.
"That's a mouthful. How about… Jini?"
Her eyes narrowed at him again, suspicion flaring—but not quite as sharp this time.
"Jini," she repeated slowly, as if weighing the shape of it.
"Yeah," Harold said softly. "Jini."
"Fine, but only for now." she spat out.
"Now all that being said, let's get you back up on the bed, so i can fix the splint on your leg and straighten out your bandages."
She didnt respond to him, not verbally at least.
But she did work her way up to her one mostly good leg, before hopping back to where she could scrable up onto the bed.