Page 7

AVA

D usk creeps in like a slow bleed, turning the sky a bruised palette of indigo and wine.

The jungle doesn't go quiet—it sharpens. Every chirp, rustle, and distant, guttural call feels amplified, echoing off thick vines and gnarled trunks like a warning. The air presses down heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying flora. It clings to my skin like a second layer, sticky and relentless, making each movement feel like dragging myself through warm molasses. Sweat drips down my spine and pools at the base of my neck, but I don’t stop.

I move through the scattered remains of the pod, scavenging like a desperate animal.

A torn thermal blanket that still holds the stink of charred plastic.

A cracked water canister—half-empty, maybe leaky.

A ration pack fused at the edges from the crash heat but still intact enough to chew through.

Not exactly a five-star supply drop, but it’s something.

I shove it all into my arms and make my way to a fallen tree a few meters off, where the foliage is dense enough to give partial cover.

I get to work, threading branches through loops in the thermal material, anchoring corners with rocks.

It’s slow going—my hands ache, my leg throbs from the earlier impact—but the rhythm helps.

The jungle doesn’t care if I’m tired. It doesn’t care that I’ve got training, or ambition, or something to prove.

Out here, the only thing that matters is not dying before morning.

Behind me, I can feel him. The Reaper. Walking apocalypse. He hasn’t lifted a damn finger to help, just stands there leaning against a scorched section of pod hull like he owns the fucking planet. Arms crossed over that mountain of a chest, head tilted slightly like he’s enjoying the show.

“You planning to build a palace out here, sweetheart?” he drawls, voice thick with derision.

I pause, wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. The urge to throw a rock at his face is strong.

"I'm planning to survive the night without being eaten alive," I bite back, straightening up and leveling him with a glare.

He chuckles—low and amused, like I’m a child playing soldier. “Suit yourself.”

His tone makes my teeth grind. I turn back to the lean-to, biting down on the wave of frustration. Let him laugh. Let him think I’m weak or na?ve. He’ll learn. Either I survive this or I die trying—and I sure as hell won’t do it curled up useless in the dirt while some smug alien prick watches.

I ignore him, pretending his voice doesn’t crawl under my skin like fire ants.

But his presence? It's impossible to ignore. He’s a constant, looming pressure, like a storm building behind my shoulder.

Every time I glance up—just quick flicks of my eyes—he’s there.

Leaning against the wreckage with the lazy arrogance of someone who thinks the world bends to him.

Watching me. Judging every move I make like I’m a bug he hasn't decided whether to squash or toy with.

The jungle around us is unlike anything I’ve ever seen.

Trees tower overhead, their trunks twisted and gnarled, wrapped in vines as thick as my wrist. Bioluminescent moss glows faintly from the undersides of leaves, casting the clearing in an eerie, green-blue haze.

Strange calls echo in the distance—guttural warbles, sharp clicking sounds, and something that howls low and long like it’s mourning the moon.

Insects buzz with a frequency that grates at the back of my skull, and every bush or shadow seems like it could hide something hungry.

The air stinks of wet decay and alien flora, thick with moisture that clings to every pore.

Still, I finish anchoring the last corner of the shelter, pulling the branch tight and securing it with a strip of salvaged wiring. It’s not elegant, but it’ll hold.

That’s when I feel him step in—close. Too close.

“You really think this flimsy setup is going to keep us safe?” he mutters, voice low and mocking. He’s standing just behind my shoulder, casting a shadow over me, heat radiating from his massive frame.

I stand up slowly and square my shoulders, refusing to let him crowd me. “It’s better than nothing.”

He steps in even closer, and I feel his breath fan across my cheek—hot, steady, infuriating.

“You’re stubborn,” he says, like it’s a warning.

“And you’re an ass,” I snap, chin lifting defiantly.

In a blink, he moves. One large hand snakes out and grabs my wrist, yanking me toward him. The motion is fast, fluid, effortless—like handling a ragdoll. My breath catches in my throat as I stumble against him.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he growls, eyes boring into mine.

I twist, trying to wrench free, but his grip is iron. His skin is rough, calloused, the texture catching against my wrist like sandpaper. My heart thunders against my ribs, not just from fear—but from something else. His eyes burn crimson, flickering like embers. Intense. Focused. Hungry.

I meet his stare, breathing hard, lips parted as I try to find something sharp to say—but the words dissolve before they make it out.

The tension changes. One beat ago it was violence. Now? Now I feel like I might explode.

Suddenly, a sharp rustle splits the underbrush to our left—too loud, too purposeful. I freeze, head snapping toward the sound.

Then comes the growl. Low, guttural, primal. It vibrates through the ground beneath my boots and curdles the blood in my veins. My stomach flips. That is not a sound made by anything harmless.

Before I can react—before I can even turn—something explodes from the shadows.

A flash of mottled fur and gleaming claws. Fangs as long as my fingers. Yellow eyes fixed on me.

I barely register the blur of movement before the Reaper slams into me, his entire body a freight train of muscle and momentum. We hit the ground hard, his weight crushing the air from my lungs just as razor-sharp claws swipe through the space where my throat had been. Dirt sprays up around us.

He rolls, pushing me behind him with a snarl. “Stay down,” he growls, already reaching for his blade.

I scramble backward on my hands, heart trying to punch its way out of my ribs.

The creature stalks forward, massive and sinewy, its body like a panther spliced with nightmare. Its hide glistens with an oily sheen, and bone-like spines ridge its back. It opens its mouth and hisses, saliva dripping from curved fangs.

He doesn't hesitate. He squares his stance, shoulders coiled, every line of him ready to strike. That curved blade of his glints once in the dying light—and then he lunges.

What follows is chaos. A blur of violence and speed.

The beast snarls, slashing at him with claws that could gut a man.

He ducks, spins, slams his elbow into its ribs.

His blade arcs, carving a red gash along the creature’s flank.

Blood sprays, dark and thick, painting the jungle floor.

The beast roars and rams into him, knocking them both sideways into a tree with a crunch of bark.

I gasp, hands over my mouth.

He recovers first, driving the knife up under the beast’s chin. It howls. He twists the blade—once, twice—and rips it free in a spray of blood and bile. The predator shudders, trembles, then slumps into the dirt with a thud that echoes through the clearing.

He stands over the body, chest heaving, blood dripping down his arms, his blade still raised. For a second, he looks feral. Glowing red eyes. Bared teeth. A silhouette carved out of rage and adrenaline.

Then he turns to me.

He glances at the twitching corpse at his feet, then wipes his blade on the grass with a casual flick. “Dinner.”

I swallow hard, trying to steady my hands. “Silver linings,” I murmur, and somehow—somehow—I manage a smile.