We stood there in the clearing, clean, healed, rejuvenated, and looking like we'd just stepped out of a commercial for "Adventurers Who Smell Nice."
The blood was gone.
The grime was gone.
The trauma was… temporarily suppressed.
Perfect time to ruin the mood.
I clapped my hands once.
Loud.
"Alright, children. Fun's over. We need to move."
Three sets of eyes looked at me like I'd just declared myself their father, which to be honest, I didn't do.
I ignored them.
"The sun's going down any minute," I continued, glancing up through the thick canopy of trees blocking the sun. "We need to find shelter before then."
Because here's the thing:
These three?
They grew up privileged as hell.
Little golden lives.
Warm beds.
Safe homes.
Proper meals.
No danger, no uncertainty, no sleeping with one eye open.
Meanwhile, me?
I'd slept in alleys in a past life.
On cold concrete.
With rain smacking me in the face at 3 a.m.
And rats nibbling way too close to my toes.
