OCTOBER AND ANDY

The forest is too loud.

Not in the way it used to be—no birds, no wind through leaves in any kind of comforting rhythm—but in the wrong way. Branches creak without cause. Dry foliage shifts under things that don’t belong there. Every sound feels like it’s watching you, waiting for you to slow down, to falter.

You don’t.

You can’t.

Your breath tears through your chest in uneven bursts, sharp and ragged, each inhale catching painfully like your lungs are resisting the effort. Something aches deep in your side—something more than a stitch, something worse—but you don’t stop to assess it. You don’t have the luxury.

Behind you, there’s nothing you can clearly see.

But you know.

You know the patterns now—the distant shouts, the mechanical hum, the way the air itself seems to tighten when they’re near. HEV doesn’t need to be visible to be felt. Their presence lingers like a stain.

And you were there.

You remember enough of it to keep running.

Cold metal.

Hands that didn’t hesitate.

Voices that never rose but never softened either.

Punishment that wasn’t loud—but was thorough.

You don’t let your thoughts stay there long.

You can’t.

Because if you do, your legs will stop.

And if your legs stop—

You push forward harder, forcing your body to keep moving even as it protests. Your ankle nearly gives out when you misstep over a root, sending a jolt of pain up your leg that nearly drops you to your knees. You catch yourself at the last second, stumbling, barely keeping your balance.

Keep moving.

The trees thin slightly ahead.

A break in the forest.

Your vision blurs at the edges, dark creeping in and out like shadows you can’t outrun. Your hands shake, fingers numb and stiff, your entire body running on something far past adrenaline.

You don’t know where you’re going.

You don’t know if you’re even heading somewhere safe.

But you keep running anyway.

Because stopping means going back.

And going back—

No.

You don’t think about it.

You break through the last line of trees into a clearing that feels too open, too exposed. The ground dips slightly, uneven, patches of dirt and grass scattered beneath your feet. There’s no cover here. No immediate place to hide.

But there are people.

Two figures.

Your vision struggles to focus, but they’re there—standing at the far edge of the clearing, partially obscured by the trees behind them. Still. Alert.

Your heart stutters.

Your steps falter—not stopping, but shifting, like your body doesn’t know whether to run toward them or away.

They notice you immediately.

Of course they do.

The moment you break into the clearing, both figures shift, their posture snapping into something guarded, something ready.

Andy reacts first.

He steps slightly in front of the other, his stance sharp, immediate, protective in a way that doesn’t leave room for hesitation. His hand moves instinctively toward his weapon, his amber eyes narrowing as they lock onto you.

You’re moving too fast.

Too erratically.

Too wrong.

Everything about you screams danger.

And he doesn’t recognize you.

Not at all.

To him, you’re just another unknown—another potential threat running straight at them with no explanation.

“Stop!” he calls out, his voice cutting cleanly through the air, sharp and commanding.

You don’t.

You can’t.

Your legs don’t slow. Your breath doesn’t steady. Your body doesn’t listen to commands anymore—it just moves, driven by something deeper, something desperate.

October steps forward slightly then, his posture less aggressive but no less alert. His dark hair shifts with the movement, his blue eyes locking onto you with immediate focus.

He doesn’t draw his weapon.

Not yet.

But his body is tense, ready.

“Andy—wait,” he says quickly, something in his tone shifting, uncertain.

Because there’s something about you.

Something off.

Not threatening—no, not exactly.

Just—

Wrong.

You’re not moving like someone who’s about to attack.

You’re moving like someone who’s trying to survive.

Your steps stagger slightly, your pace uneven now as the distance between you closes. The closer you get, the more obvious it becomes—your breathing is too shallow, too fast. Your posture is off, your movements unsteady, like you’re holding yourself together by force alone.

Andy notices.

Of course he does.

But it doesn’t ease his stance.

If anything, it makes him more wary.

“What are you doing?” he mutters under his breath, more to October than to you. “They’re not stopping.”

October doesn’t answer right away.

His gaze stays fixed on you, sharper now, searching.

Trying to place something that doesn’t quite fit.

You stumble again.

This time, it’s worse.

Your foot catches against uneven ground, your body pitching forward just enough to make it clear—if you fall, you might not get back up.

But you don’t stop.

You force yourself forward again, every step heavier than the last.

Closer.

Closer.

Your vision narrows, the edges darkening further, the figures in front of you blurring together before slowly sharpening again.

Two people.

One tense. Ready to strike.

One uncertain. Watching.

Familiar.

Something in your chest twists.

Your throat tightens painfully, your voice catching before it can even form properly.

But you push it out anyway.

“—October—!”

The name tears from your throat, raw and uneven, barely holding together.

It cuts through everything.

The space.

The tension.

The distance.

October freezes.

Completely.

Like something has just slammed into him from the inside out.

Andy’s reaction is immediate.

His grip tightens, his stance shifting even sharper, his entire focus snapping between you and October in an instant.

“What—?” Andy starts, confusion flashing across his face. “You know them?”

But October doesn’t answer.

He can’t.

Because he’s staring at you now.

Really staring.

And something in his expression breaks.

Not visibly.

Not in a way anyone else would catch immediately.

But it’s there.

Recognition.

Shock.

Something heavier.

Something worse.

Andy notices the shift instantly.

Of course he does.

His eyes narrow further, something sharper flickering beneath the surface now—not just suspicion, but something closer to irritation. To something more personal.

Because whoever you are—

You matter.

And he doesn’t like that.

Not when he doesn’t understand why.

Not when October is looking at you like that.

Your steps don’t slow.

You’re too close now.

Too far gone to stop.

The clearing feels smaller, tighter, like the distance between you and them has collapsed entirely.

Andy adjusts his stance again, positioning himself just slightly more in front of October without even realizing it.

Protective.

Guarded.

Wary.

His gaze locks onto you, sharper than before, more focused.

More critical.

And then—

Something else flickers there.

Brief.

Unwanted.

Because now that you’re closer—

Now that he can actually see you—

It hits him.

You don’t look like a threat.

You don’t move like one.

And despite everything—the chaos, the injuries, the way you’re barely holding yourself upright—

You’re—

He clenches his jaw.

Hard.

The thought cuts off immediately, buried under instinct, under caution, under something far less comfortable.

Because it doesn’t matter.

It shouldn’t matter.

And yet—

It does.

Just enough to irritate him further.

“October,” Andy says again, sharper this time, not taking his eyes off you. “Who is that?”

October doesn’t respond.

Not yet.

Because you’re still running toward them.

Still closing the distance.

Still calling his name like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

And for the first time since he escaped—

Since he left—

October feels something twist in his chest that he hasn’t been able to shake.

Something heavy.

Something unfinished.

Something that never should have been left behind.

And now—

You’re here.