SOKKA

The forest doesn’t announce you.

It never has.

It absorbs sound instead—softens it, bends it, hides it beneath layers of rustling leaves and distant wind. Every step taken beneath its canopy feels deliberate, even when it isn’t. Every misplaced movement carries weight.

That’s why the trap works.

It always does.

You set it earlier, careful with placement, deliberate with design. A shallow depression masked by leaves, tension lines woven from strong, living vines—anchored high above to a branch that could bear weight without strain. It isn’t meant to kill. Just to catch. To warn. To remind anyone who wanders too far that this land is not unguarded.

You’ve been watching ever since.

The figure moving through the trees doesn’t belong here.

That much is obvious.

Even before the trap is triggered, there’s something off about him—not just his clothing, though that’s unfamiliar enough, layered in blues and furs that don’t match the region. Not just the way he moves, either, though there’s an alertness in it that suggests experience.

No.

It’s the way he talks.

To himself.

Constantly.

“…Okay, so firewood,” he mutters, stepping over a fallen branch without much thought. “Simple task. Straightforward objective. Find wood, bring wood back, don’t get distracted—”

He pauses, crouching briefly to inspect a cluster of sticks before picking one up, turning it over in his hand.

“—this is not good wood. This is… mediocre wood at best. We deserve better than mediocre wood.”

He tosses it aside.

Moves on.

You watch from a distance, partially obscured by the dense undergrowth, eyes tracking every movement with quiet precision. He doesn’t notice. Not yet.

“…I mean, I could bring this back,” he continues, pushing through a patch of low-hanging branches. “But then what? ‘Oh wow, Sokka, amazing job bringing us barely functional firewood.’ No. No, I have standards.”

Another step.

Another.

Then—

A shift.

Subtle.

The ground gives just slightly beneath his foot as he steps onto the carefully layered leaves.

There’s a split second where nothing happens.

Then everything does.

The tension line snaps tight.

The vines jerk upward with sudden force, tightening around him as the net springs closed, pulling him off the ground in one swift, controlled motion.

Leaves scatter.

Air rushes.

And suddenly—

He’s hanging upside down, suspended several feet above the forest floor, caught completely off guard.

There’s a moment of stunned silence.

Then—

“—Okay!”

The word bursts out of him, sharp with surprise as he twists slightly in the net, trying to orient himself. The vines creak but hold firm, tightening when he shifts too much.

“…That’s new,” he mutters, blinking as he looks around, trying to make sense of what just happened.

He reaches for the vines immediately, fingers tugging at the woven structure, testing for weak points.

There aren’t any.

“Right. Okay. Not ideal. Definitely not ideal.”

He adjusts his position again, trying to pull himself up, but the net tightens further in response, restricting movement more with each attempt.

“…Yep. That’s—wow. That’s really secure.”

A pause.

Then his head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing as realization begins to settle in.

“…This was definitely on purpose.”

His gaze sharpens, scanning the surrounding trees now with far more intent than before.

“Hey!” he calls out suddenly, voice cutting through the quiet of the forest. “Who did this? Let me out!”

The demand echoes briefly, then fades.

No answer.

He shifts again, trying to reach for something—anything—on his belt, but the angle makes it difficult, his movements limited by the way the net constricts around him.

“I’m serious!” he adds, louder now. “I’m—uh— I’m armed!”

There’s a beat.

Then, quieter, more to himself:

“Very armed. Extremely dangerous situation you’ve got here. For you. Not me. Obviously.”

Another pause.

Nothing changes.

The forest remains still.

Too still.

Sokka exhales, tension creeping into his posture despite the words.

“…Okay,” he mutters. “So either they’re not here, or they’re ignoring me, which is honestly worse.”

He glances around again, more carefully this time, eyes scanning the undergrowth, the trees, the shadows between them.

Something shifts.

Not in the environment.

In his expression.

That easy, constant stream of humor doesn’t disappear—but it tightens, pulled closer, less open.

More cautious.

“You know,” he calls again, voice steadier now, less exaggerated, “if this is some kind of warning, I get it. Message received. Very effective. Ten out of ten trap work.”

Still nothing.

But he doesn’t look convinced.

Because he knows.

Someone is here.

Watching.

The way the forest holds its breath gives it away.

Sokka shifts again, slower this time, testing the limits of the net without triggering it to tighten further. His fingers brush along the vines, feeling the tension, the strength of them.

“…These are fresh,” he notes under his breath. “Whoever set this knows what they’re doing.”

His gaze lifts again, sharper now.

“Look,” he says, louder, more direct, “I’m not here to cause problems, okay? I’m just looking for firewood. That’s it.”

A brief pause.

Then, with a slight grimace:

“Which, admittedly, I’m not doing a great job of right now.”

His head tilts again, listening.

Waiting.

Nothing answers.

But that doesn’t mean no one’s there.

He knows that.

The realization settles in fully now, threading through his posture, sharpening his awareness.

He’s not alone.

Hasn’t been.

And somewhere nearby—

You’re still watching.

Hidden.

Silent.

Unseen.

For now.