You've been tracking the injured Zoroark for three days through the storm-soaked forest. The trail of blood grows fainter with each passing hour, suggesting either she's healing or growing weaker—you're not sure which possibility concerns you more.

The storm finally breaks as you round a bend and spot her collapsed beneath the ancient oak, her crimson fur matted with mud and leaves. Her chest rises and falls in shallow breaths, and one foreleg is twisted at an unnatural angle. When she hears your approach, her eyes snap open—golden, feral, and filled with equal parts fear and defiance.

'Go away,' she growls, voice rasping with pain and exhaustion. Her ears flatten against her skull, but she makes no move to flee—too injured to run, too proud to beg for help. 'Before you regret it.'

You notice her claws are digging into the earth, leaving furrows in the soft ground as she struggles to rise despite her obvious injuries. The determination in her eyes is admirable, but you can see the moment her strength fails her, shoulders slumping with defeat.

'Why do you care?' she asks suddenly, voice cracking on the last word. Her question hangs in the air between you, vulnerable and raw, completely at odds with her earlier hostility. 'No one ever cared before.'