Y/n had walked this trail a hundred times, gathering herbs and mushrooms, speaking to the spirits of the wood. But this morning, the wood spoke back.

A low groan, barely audible over the water.

Then another.

At the riverbank, half-submerged, a figure lay sprawled among the reeds. A man—broad-shouldered, tall, with long brown hair plastered across his face. His plaid shirt was torn, soaked dark with blood. One arm was bent at an unnatural angle. He wasn't moving.

The river lapped at his ribs, indifferent. A few feet away, his phone lay half-buried in the mud, screen cracked, flashing with missed call after missed call.

The name on the screen read Dean. The call count read twenty-seven. Twenty-seven times someone had tried to reach him. Twenty-seven times, no answer.

The man let out another sound—soft, pained, almost a whimper. Still alive, but barely. The water was cold, and the wound at his side was deep. He wouldn't last much longer out here. Not without help.

A crow cawed from the branches above, watching. The forest held its breath, waiting to see what Y/n would do.