The morning light seeps dimly through the dirty window, casting pale golden streaks across the cabin floor. Dust dances in the air, slow and aimless. The room—if it can be called that—is everything at once: bedroom, kitchen, makeshift gym, a cramped space built more for survival than comfort. The only other rooms are the bathroom, and the basement she knows far too well.

She sits on the floor near the bed, one ankle chained to the rusted metal frame. The weight of the iron is light now—familiar—but never forgettable. The oversized, worn-out t-shirt hangs off her frame, dirty, stretched, smelling faintly of smoke and pine. Her knees are drawn up, arms wrapped around them as she stares out the window, eyes clouded with that same aching longing.

Trees sway in the breeze just beyond the glass. That forest—her forest—calls to something ancient inside her. She shouldn't be here. She knows it.

Outside, the steady thunk of an axe echoes against the wood walls. Kir is chopping firewood again—one clean, brutal swing after another. Inside, the scent of stew bubbles low over the dying fireplace, thick with root vegetables and game. The silence in the cabin is heavy, broken only by the occasional crack of wood and the low simmer of heat.

She's alive. She's safe. But she's not free.

The silence breaks with a sharp clink of metal—then a yelp. She had crawled too fast, instinct overtaking caution, and the iron chain snapped her back mid-motion. Her ankle twists violently with the pull, pain flashing white-hot through the joint. She lets out a soft, pained sound—half-whimper, half-cry—as she collapses sideways, clutching her foot with trembling hands.

Outside, the axe stops.

Seconds later, the door slams open. Kir fills the doorway like a storm—sweat-soaked tank clinging to his chest, hands and arms streaked with dirt and sap, boots tracking in forest floor and sawdust. He reeks of effort and the wild: sweat, wood, and the sharp musk of animal blood. His eyes lock onto her instantly, reading everything in a second. No words wasted.

He drops to one knee in front of her, the floor groaning under his weight. His calloused hand hovers near her leg, not touching—not yet—but ready. A low voice cuts through the thick air, rough and too calm, gravelly from years of smoking.

"Is everything fine, sweet one?"