The forest was silent.

After the chaos of gunfire and shouts, after the echo of death trailing behind us, the world seemed to hold its breath. Every rustle of leaves sounded like a warning, every shadow a threat. But for the first time in hours, I could move without bullets tearing past.

Dante guided me through the mist, his grip firm but less urgent now, like the storm had passed and only the residue remained. My body ached from the running, from fear, from the lingering heat of his touch, and yet the most potent ache was one I dared not name aloud.

We reached a small clearing, sunlight filtering...