The storm came quietly that night.
Snow pressed itself against the cabin windows in soft, uneven bursts, carried by a wind that howled somewhere deep within the forest. The world beyond the glass had disappeared into darkness long before the sun had fully set. The trees were no longer shapes—only moving shadows, swaying beneath a sky that seemed far too heavy for winter alone.
Red Hood stood by the stove.
The soup had been ready for a while now.
Still, she didn’t move.
Her hand remained wrapped around the handle of the pot, steam curling lazily around her fingers. The metal was hot enough to burn skin. Hot enough to blister.
She hadn’t noticed.
It wasn’t until Grey’s tongue brushed against her wrist that she flinched, the ladle slipping slightly in her grasp.
A dull ache followed.
Not sharp.
Just… distant.
Like her nerves had forgotten how to scream.
She blinked once, then poured the soup into two wooden bowls with slow, careful movements. The steam rose between them, filling the small kitchen with warmth that failed to reach her bones.
“Grey,” she called softly. “Eat.”
His tail wagged immediately as she set one down in front of him. Despite the layers of bandages still wrapped around his body, he moved with far more ease than he had three days ago. Each step was steadier now. Less hesitant. The tremble in his legs had faded, replaced by the stubborn persistence she had always admired.
Three days.
It had been three days since the forest.
Since the outpost.
Since the heat that had torn through her veins and forced her bones back into place.
Her body had healed completely.
That was the problem.
Her fingers went numb sometimes, especially when she tried to hold something tightly. Her ribs ached—not from damage, but from memory. And every now and then, her jaw would tighten without warning, like something inside it remembered being broken.
Or bitten.
Red Hood lowered herself into the chair across from Grey, staring blankly at the surface of her untouched soup. The reflection staring back at her didn’t look wrong—yet something about it felt unfamiliar.
'Is it getting closer…'
'Or am I just tired?'
Grey’s sudden whine snapped her out of it.
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She looked up.
“Do you want your bandages changed?”
His tail answered for him.
The bedroom was colder than the rest of the cabin.
Red Hood stepped inside, moving toward the wooden cabinet where she kept the remaining supplies. Her fingers had just brushed the handle when—
Clink.
A sharp metallic sound echoed through the room.
Like a chain being pulled taut.
She turned quickly.
Nothing.
Just the dim outline of old furniture and candlelight pressed into shadow.
Her jaw throbbed.
Slowly, her gaze shifted toward the corner beside the cabinet.
Bandages.
Old ones.
Dried and yellowed with time, covered in faded symbols drawn in ink she didn’t remember using. They were wrapped tightly around something—bound in place by rusted chains stained a deep, dark red.
For a moment, she couldn’t look away.
They felt familiar.
Not safe.
But known.
Her ribs tightened painfully as if reacting to their presence. A pulse ran beneath her skin—too slow to be a heartbeat, too deliberate to be ignored.
She grabbed the fresh bandages and left without another glance.
Grey sat patiently by the fire.
He didn’t move as she unwound the old wrappings from his body, exposing the dry wounds beneath. They were healing well.
Too well.
She reached for the medicine—
And paused.
There was blood.
Not much.
Just a thin line where the skin had split again during movement.
Her breath caught.
For a fraction of a second—
Her throat tightened.
Her stomach twisted in a way that had nothing to do with hunger.
Her vision narrowed.
The warmth of it.
The smell.
She pulled her hand back sharply.
Grey whined, confused.
“I’m fine,” she murmured, though her voice felt too quiet to belong to her.
She forced herself to continue, applying the medicine with careful, trembling hands. Each touch felt heavier than it should have, as though she were afraid her fingers might press too hard and break something that could not be repaired.
When she finished, he leaned forward and licked her cheek without hesitation.
Warm.
Alive.
Trusting.
They collapsed together soon after.
The smell woke her.
Rot.
Iron.
Heat.
Red Hood’s eyes snapped open.
She wasn’t in the cabin.
The forest stretched endlessly around her, silent and unmoving beneath a sky that didn’t exist. Bodies lay scattered across the ground.
Faces she knew.
Or thought she knew.
Their eyes were open.
Watching.
Her breathing grew heavier.
Her hands began to shake.
Something wet filled her mouth.
Warm.
Familiar.
She looked down.
Her fingers were buried deep inside a torn chest cavity.
Steam curled against her skin.
Her stomach growled.
Red Hood jerked awake with a gasp.
The cabin returned slowly.
Candlelight.
Wood.
Grey’s sleeping form beside her.
That should have been enough.
It wasn’t.
Her chest rose and fell in shallow bursts as the smell lingered—faint, but real. She pressed her hand against her mouth as though that might force it away.
It didn’t.
She washed her face in silence.
Cold water.
Steady breath.
'Don’t think about it.'
'Don’t—'
The candle slipped from her grasp as she turned toward the mirror.
Hot wax splashed across her forearm.
She hissed as the flame kissed her skin.
It blistered instantly.
Reddened.
Swelled—
Then stopped.
The pain didn’t fade.
But the wound did.
Right in front of her.
The flesh pulled itself together with slow, sickening precision. The skin tightened. The swelling vanished. The damage corrected itself as though following instructions she had never given.
Like it remembered the shape it was supposed to have.
No scar.
No mark.
Nothing.
Red Hood didn’t move.
She couldn’t.
Her reflection stared back at her in silence.
Unchanged.
That was worse.
When she slept again—
The darkness was already waiting.
This time, she didn’t run.
Her breathing steadied.
Her heartbeat slowed.
Her gaze lifted toward the shape moving somewhere beyond sight. Something that breathed when she didn’t. Something that listened when she spoke. Something that existed in the spaces between sound.
A presence.
Watching.
Patient.
“…Is it time?”
Silence answered her.
But deep inside—
A single chain trembled.
And somewhere in the dark—
It cracked.
Once.
Then again.
Not broken.
Not yet.
But close enough for her to feel it.
