The next morning, the high school gave the illusion of returning to normal.
On the surface only.
The courtyard buzzed: bursts of voices, bags slamming lockers, forced laughter. But the air carried a false note, like a cold draft slipping under a closed door.
Local news had been looping for two days: disappearances, bodies found in the woods. No one said "wolf" or "monster," but the word hung heavy in every glance.
I was crossing the courtyard when I spotted Riven in the distance. Head down, shoulders slightly hunched—not yet the confidence of a beta, but no longer the raw panic from the day before.
I raised my hand. He saw me, hesitated for a second, then walked over.
As soon as he was close, I turned.
"Anything strange this morning?" I asked quietly.
He shook his head, face blank.
"Nothing. All good."
For him, maybe.
For me, the metallic, ancient smell of the alpha still clung to the back of my throat from the forest.
I didn't push. Not here, surrounded by all these faces.
I stepped outside to breathe.
The morning air was fresh, thick with damp grass and churned earth. I sat on a worn bench near the sports field, back against the wall, clear view ahead.
Jackson flopped down next to me without warning. He rubbed his temples, face twisted in pain.
"I've had a killer headache since last night… feels like someone smashed me over the head."
The sleeping spell had left its mark.
I answered calmly: "Too much booze. Classic."
He laughed—too loud.
"Yeah… the party went completely off the rails."
Cleo arrived at a quick pace, face tight.
"You guys seen the news? Another disappearance last night."
Brief silence.
Jackson shrugged.
"The thing must be starving."
Cleo frowned.
"I'm betting on a bear. And weirdly, it's mostly girls."
Jackson sighed dramatically.
"If this keeps up, I'll have to import girls for my hookups."
Cleo shot him a death glare.
"That's all you ever think about?"
"Yep."
"You're disgusting."
She was about to continue, but I'd already zoned out.
If the alpha was lurking here, he could be anyone: that kid laughing too hard, that teacher walking past with a stack of papers, that stranger in the parking lot. Or worse: someone Riven already knew.
"Hey!"
Cleo snapped me back.
"You still with us?"
"Sorry. Miles away."
She rolled her eyes.
"Seriously?"
Then she studied us.
"By the way… where were you guys last night with Rickie and Riven?"
"Lost in the woods," I said without flinching.
She smirked.
"Wait… impromptu threesome?"
I stared at her, incredulous.
"What are you smoking? No."
"Then why do you look like you're hiding a body?"
Jackson jumped in fast.
"Exam stress, probably."
I stayed silent.
Cleo stretched.
"Chill out a bit. Keep overthinking and you'll crack."
Her words lingered.
Maybe she was right.
Or maybe overthinking was our only defense.
I stood up.
"Hey!" Cleo called. "Class is that way."
I realized I was walking into nothing.
"Right… thanks."
We headed into the building.
The hallways were packed: shoving, clipped conversations, mixed smells of chewing gum and sweat. Impossible to scan every face.
We reached the classroom. The teacher wasn't there yet.
I took my seat by the window. Outside, the pale gray sky let through weak light. The wind barely stirred the trees.
But I wasn't really looking.
I was thinking about the forest. The bite. The invisible thread pulling tighter.
Suddenly—
BAM.
A stack of papers slammed onto my desk.
I jumped.
The teacher glared down at me, eyebrows furrowed.
"Focus, von Tod. We don't have all day."
I nodded mechanically.
Deep inside, the beast growled softly.
Outside, a crow let out a raw cry.
Long.
Like a signal.
The teacher paced the rows, slow and methodical. Silence fell sharp. Only the scratch of pencils and the occasional quick page-turn remained.
I lowered my eyes to my paper.
Three problems.
The first looked simple—basic calculations, obvious logic. But my brain kept slipping. The words blurred, drowned in an inner fog.
I reread. Still nothing.
Through the window, the courtyard bathed in dull light. Students ran toward the gym, nervous shadows on wet asphalt.
"Eyes on your paper, von Tod," the teacher called without turning.
I forced my gaze back.
I scribbled the first lines, shaky but there. In front of me, a foot tapped the floor in uneven rhythm—tap-tap-tap—a sound drilling into my temples.
I checked the clock: 9:18.
An eternity left.
Jackson, to my right, pretended intense focus, pen frozen. He slid a glance at my paper.
I pulled it closer with a sharp move.
"Seriously?" he muttered without moving his lips.
I shrugged one shoulder.
Behind me, a muffled cough. A chair scraped.
"Bathroom? Now or never," the teacher said.
No one moved.
A hand went up at the back.
"Sir… how much time?"
"Thirty minutes."
A collective sigh rippled through the room.
I forced myself back into problem two.
The numbers mocked me.
Maybe Cleo was right: overthinking paralyzed you.
I took a deep breath, pushed away the ghost smell of the forest—wet earth, ancient blood—and started again.
The answers came slowly, mechanical.
For those few minutes, my mind finally let go of the alpha hiding somewhere in these walls.
The beast settled, calm for now.
I finished the last problem. Quick reread. Uncertain, but done.
At the back, someone asked to hand in. Others followed.
I placed mine on the stack without a word.
"Thanks," the teacher murmured.
I returned to my seat.
The bell rang, shrill.
The room emptied in familiar chaos: chairs scraping, bags slamming, voices exploding.
In the hallway, Jackson caught up.
"You survive?"
"We'll see."
"I winged the whole thing."
Riven appeared, tired but steady.
"That test was a slaughter," Jackson groaned.
"I've seen worse," Riven said with a faint smile.
Cleo popped up, bag over her shoulder.
"Verdict, geniuses?"
"Total disaster," Jackson said.
She smiled, then grew serious.
"You heard? The vice principal is looking for everyone from last night's party. Our names are on the list."
Jackson winced.
"Great…"
I looked at Riven.
He stayed quiet for a beat.
Then:
"Let's go see what he wants."
We followed him toward the admin building, through the human tide.
Every lingering stare made the beast stir.
This summons wasn't innocent.
Someone knew something.
And the alpha could be any one of them.
The day wasn't over.
It was just starting to bare its teeth. Riven: "Brutal. Really brutal. I finished, but I can feel I screwed up the simplifications."
Me: "Same. I dropped several parts. It was too much."
We high-fived, exhausted, no real energy left to joke around.
Jackson: "Pizza tonight? Gotta forget this fast."
Everyone nodded.
A classic senior-year day: a test that wrecks you, and the feeling your brain is still smoking when you get home.
Tomorrow we'd start again, but right now we were all drained. The hallway was still packed after the bell, but we'd managed to regroup near the back lockers, where it smelled less like cheap body spray and sweat.
The four of us stood there, bags half-open, tired eyes. The AP Calc test had demolished us: no one had really spoken since we left the room. Just sighs, muffled curses, and shoulders slumping.
Cleo was the first to break the silence. She shoved her notebook away with a sharp motion, slammed her locker, and turned to us with that little half-smile she pulls when she's already decided everything.
"Okay, losers, we're not spending the whole evening moping. We survived that massacre—that's already a win."
Jackson gave a half-hearted chuckle, leaning against a locker.
"Survive, yeah. Feels like a bus hit me in the face."
"Exactly. So we celebrate."
Riven raised an eyebrow.
"Celebrate… what? Our collective brain death?"
Cleo rolled her eyes.
"The end of the hardest test of the year. The descent into hell is over—we deserve something fun. And I've got the solution."
She pulled out her phone, scrolled for a second, and turned the screen toward us.
"Jaher's place. Tonight. His house is free. He said there'd be food, decent music, and he's set up the projector outside for a movie or a game. Not a huge crowd—just us plus a few chill friends. Pizza, wings, beers if we want, soda for the lame ones. And most importantly: zero studying, zero talk about derivatives or related rates. Banned."
Jackson straightened up instantly, suddenly interested.
"Wait… is he aware—wait, did you tell him about me?"
"Yeah. And the old beer pong setup in the garage."
I nodded slowly.
"Sounds good. I just want to lie somewhere and forget I exist for three hours."
Riven crossed his arms, but you could tell he was already hesitating less.
"As long as there aren't fifty people screaming and we don't end up cleaning puke at 3 a.m…"
Cleo raised her hand like she was swearing an oath.
"Promise. Jaher said max twenty people, and he kicks out idiots right away. He even asked if we were coming so he could save us spots by the campfire he's lighting."
Jackson clapped his hands.
"Okay, I'm in. Gotta swing home and change—I've got stress smell glued to my skin."
Cleo pocketed her phone and looked at each of us.
"So it's settled. 7:30 at Jaher's. Bring your good mood—or at least your zombie face, that'll work too. But tonight we bury this test. Deal?"
We all nodded, almost in sync.
"Deal."
She gave a real smile this time—tired but satisfied. Cleo slipped her phone away with a victorious grin, like she'd just won a bet we hadn't even made.
"Wait, guys, one important detail about Jaher's house."
Jackson looked up, already daydreaming about wings.
"What, no pool or something?"
"No, there is a pool. But the place… it's not a normal house. Jaher lives alone in there—it's this huge old mansion lost at the edge of a forest, twenty minutes from town. His parents bought it years ago for peanuts because it was abandoned, and they never really fixed it up. Jaher's been handling it solo since high school—well, solo with his stuff."
Riven frowned.
"His stuff?"
Cleo lowered her voice a bit, even though the hallway was emptying.
"Yeah. The house looks like a museum of weird artifacts. Everywhere: shelves groaning under old objects, tribal masks on the walls, carved wooden statues from who-knows-where, display cases full of ancient coins, rusted medals, colored glass bottles from the 19th century, broken clocks, decorative weapons, fake crystal skulls, yellowed globes… It's like someone emptied a Victorian antique shop and a cabinet of curiosities into a big wooden house. There's even a whole room with pinned butterflies under glass and jars full of formaldehyde things—he swears it's not real, but with him, you never know."
I felt a shiver despite the hallway heat.
"And he lives there alone? No family, no roommates?"
"Yeah. His parents travel nonstop for work. He's been managing that place since he was sixteen. He says it's quiet, that the forest around muffles all the road noise. But honestly… the first time I went, it felt like stepping into a Tim Burton movie. Long, dark hallways, creaky floorboards, dusty chandeliers hanging, objects staring at you from the corners. But it's cool, you know. He strung LED lights everywhere so it doesn't feel too creepy at night, and outside there's a campfire ready, a trampoline, the projector on the garage wall… It's still a party, not a séance."
Jackson burst out laughing, a little forced.
"Dude, as long as there's pizza and no one jumps me with a mask at 2 a.m., I'm down. Beats basement parties that smell like old socks."
Cleo shrugged. I leaned in slightly and murmured:
"It's now or never."
Jackson's head snapped up immediately.
"You're right… let's go."
Then he pointed at Rickie.
"And when I say 'us,' that includes you, newbie."
Rickie stared at him, outraged.
"You're such an asshole."
He ran a hand through his hair, already annoyed.
"Seriously, think for two seconds. If we leave the building… first, I don't even know how many principals and vice-principals are in this school…"
Jackson raised a hand.
"Two things."
Rickie sighed.
"What?"
Jackson looked him straight in the eye.
"One: shut up."
He paused, then shrugged.
"Two: actually there is no two. Come on, let's go."
Rickie shook his head.
"I warned you…"
We stood up almost in unison.
The teacher was busy writing on the board. Most students had their eyes on their notebooks.
No one was really paying attention to us.
I grabbed my bag slowly, trying not to make noise.
Jackson eased the classroom door open carefully.
The hallway was almost empty.
Perfect.
We slipped out quickly.
The door closed behind us with a soft click.
"Okay…" Jackson whispered. "First step success."
We walked down the hallway trying to look casual. A few students passed now and then, but no one really looked at us.
At the end of the hall, we went down the stairs to the back exit.
That door was rarely watched.
I glanced around.
No one.
Jackson pushed the handle gently.
The door creaked slightly.
We froze.
Nothing.
He opened it just enough to slip through.
The cool outside air hit us immediately.
"We did it," Jackson murmured with a small grin.
We hurried out and closed the door behind us.
The back courtyard was empty. We could only hear distant student voices from the buildings.
Without wasting time, we followed the fence and slipped onto a small path leading straight to the forest edge.
The farther we went, the more the school noises faded behind us.
Soon, only the wind in the trees remained.
Rickie glanced around warily.
"Seriously… why are we doing this again?"
Jackson answered right away.
"Because something happened here."
I kept walking without replying.
The forest floor was still damp. Dead leaves crunched under our shoes. The air smelled of earth and moss.
Sunlight filtered through the branches, drawing long shadows on the ground.
We moved between the trees in silence.
Rickie finally whispered:
"You notice how… quiet it is?"
Jackson looked around.
"Yeah."
Too quiet.
I stopped for a second and scanned the surroundings.
The forest seemed normal.
But deep inside, a feeling lingered.
As if this place still carried traces of what happened last night.
I started walking again.
"Come on. It's farther in."
Behind me, Rickie sighed.
"I have a bad feeling about this idea…"
But despite his complaints…
he kept following us into the forest.
The forest began right behind the school's chain-link fence, where asphalt suddenly gave way to a carpet of dead leaves and black soil. The path wasn't even a real trail: just a worn line etched by generations of students coming to smoke, drink, or hide—a narrow, twisting scar snaking between trunks. In places, roots from old oaks and white pines jutted out, gnarled and slippery, forcing high steps to avoid tripping. Elsewhere, yesterday's rain had left sticky mud puddles that sucked at our soles with disgusting squelching sounds.
The air changed within the first few meters. Cooler, damper, heavy with the thick smell of moss, rotting mushrooms, and resinous sap. Sunlight still pierced through, but in slanted, broken rays that sliced the dense canopy like pale blades. Branch shadows danced on the ground, long and shifting, making it feel like something was always moving at the edge of your vision.
The trees were tall and close, trunks coated in dark green moss climbing halfway up. Virginia creeper vines dangled limply, some still bearing tiny red berries. We heard the dry snap of twigs underfoot, the rustle of wind-swept dry leaves, and occasionally the raw, distant cry of a crow that seemed to follow us from branch to branch.The path dipped slightly after a hundred meters, then curved right around a large lichen-covered rock, gray-green. There, pines took over from the hardwoods: the resin smell grew stronger, almost sticky, and the ground became carpeted with orange needles that muffled our steps—suddenly almost silent, as if the forest forced us to whisper.
Rickie tripped on a protruding root and cursed under his breath.
"Damn, this isn't a path, it's an obstacle course…"
Jackson chuckled without turning.
"Stop whining. You've seen worse in cross-country."
But even he walked more carefully now. The trail narrowed further, forced to zigzag between bramble bushes and chaotic young saplings. Spider webs stretched between branches brushed our faces; we swiped them away irritably, leaving sticky threads on our fingers.
The deeper we went, the dimmer the light became. The sun was now just a diffuse memory filtered through thick layers of leaves. The air grew colder, almost biting at the ankles. Dampness rose from the ground, soaking through socks into sneakers.
I stopped for a moment to listen.
Silence.
No distant cars, no school voices, no electric hum. Just the wind whispering softly between trunks, the occasional creak of a bending branch, and our four breaths sounding too loud in the oppressive quiet.
Rickie whispered, voice tight:
"It's too quiet. Like the forest is holding its breath."
Jackson shrugged, but his tone wasn't as confident.
"Just because we're far from the roads. Come on, move."
I took the lead again, following the now almost invisible trace deeper in. The path veered left around a cluster of ghostly white birch trunks. Silver lichen patches glowed faintly on the bark. Underfoot, the earth turned softer, spongy, like walking on something alive.
I knew we were getting close.
The clearing from last night wasn't far now.
And this forest, which had seen everything, seemed to be waiting for us.The forest seemed to have closed in on itself since we'd left the main path. The trunks had tightened, low branches now forming an almost continuous canopy that smothered the daylight. The trail was nothing more than a faint line of packed earth, overrun by ferns and brambles that scratched at our calves with every step. The air was colder, damper, thick with the smell of mushrooms and rotting wood that clung to the back of the throat.
Jackson suddenly burst out from a bush on the right, arms raised like an overexcited kid.
"BOO!" he yelled, jumping almost in place.
The shout bounced between the trees, a brief, mocking echo that quickly fell back into silence.
Rickie rolled his eyes without even slowing down.
"You really five years old, or is it just for show?" he muttered, keeping walking.
Jackson burst out laughing, pleased with himself.
"Come on, admit it—you jumped a little, right?"
No one answered. We just kept walking, shoulders a bit more tense than before.
I suddenly felt a tug on my right shoe. I looked down: both laces had come undone and were dragging in the mud.
"Wait two seconds," I said.
I crouched quickly. The ground was spongy, cold; my fingers sank slightly into the damp earth as I tied the laces fast. The smell of moss and dead leaves rose up to me, almost sweet.
When I stood back up…
No one was there.
Jackson and Rickie had vanished.
Not a footstep, not a twig snap, not even a murmur of voices. Just the wind whistling softly between the pines and the distant creak of a bending branch.
"Jackson?" I called, my voice lower than I intended.
Nothing.
"Rickie?"
The silence answered, thick, almost tangible.
A shiver ran up my spine. I turned slowly, scanning the dark trunks and motionless bushes. The dim light drew long shadows that seemed to move when I wasn't looking directly at them.
Maybe they were just a little farther ahead. Maybe they'd sped up without waiting.
I started walking again, faster now, heavy steps crunching too loudly on the dead leaves. Every sound I made felt amplified, as if the forest was listening.
Then, abruptly—
A violent crack exploded on my left.
A deer burst from the underbrush like a rocket. Its eyes were bulging, white with terror, its breathing ragged and panicked. It charged straight at me, hooves pounding the soft ground.
"Shit!"
I didn't have time to dodge. Its flank slammed into my chest full force. The impact emptied my lungs in one go. I toppled backward, landing hard on my back in a bed of wet leaves and mud. The air stayed stuck somewhere between my throat and lungs.
The deer didn't even stop. It vanished between the trees in a crash of snapping branches.
I lay there for a few seconds, dazed, short of breath, a dull pain radiating through my ribs.
"Damn… what the hell…"
I placed a hand on the ground to push myself up. The earth was icy under my palms.
And then—
FSSSHHH.
A high-pitched whistle sliced the air right next to my ear.
THUNK.
An arrow embedded itself in the trunk of a pine less than ten centimeters from my temple. The wood vibrated from the impact, a tremor that ran down to my bones.
I froze.
The metal tip gleamed faintly in the thin ray of light piercing the foliage. Fresh wood shavings still hung around the black fletching.
My heart pounded so hard I could hear it in my ears.
That arrow hadn't aimed at the tree.
It had aimed at me.
Someone was there, hidden somewhere in the shadow of the trees.
Someone who could see exactly where I was.
The forest, which had felt vast and empty a minute ago, suddenly seemed tiny, closed around me like a cage.
I didn't dare move anymore.
I didn't even dare breathe too loudly.
Because now I really felt it.
The arrow was still vibrating in the trunk when the silence settled back in, heavy and complete, as if the entire forest was holding its breath.
I stayed crouched for a few seconds, heart hammering in my temples, the smell of wet earth and crushed sap rising to my nose. The branches above me barely moved, filtering pale, cold rays of light that danced on the ground covered in dead leaves.
Then footsteps.
Slow. Steady. Not rushed at all.
A man emerged from the shadow of the pines, advancing without unnecessary noise. Discreet hunting gear: dark khaki jacket stained with dried mud at the elbows, reinforced cargo pants, worn but well-maintained high boots. A modern compound bow in his left hand, string still slightly taut. No fluorescent vest, no ridiculous cap—just a guy who knew exactly what he was doing in the woods.
He stopped five or six meters away—far enough not to feel threatening, close enough for me to clearly see his features.
Tall, broad-shouldered without excess, mid-length blond hair a bit tousled catching the rare glints of sunlight. Pale gray eyes, almost silver under the dim light, fixed on me with calm, almost detached curiosity.
He lowered his gaze slightly toward me—still half on the ground, covered in mud, stuck leaves, and cold sweat.
One corner of his mouth lifted in the tiniest, barely perceptible smile.
"I thought the forest would be empty today," he said in a deep, measured voice. "Apparently not."
I stood up slowly, brushed the damp dirt off my jeans, trying to regain some composure despite the lump in my throat.
"Do you shoot at everything that comes out of the bushes, or am I just lucky?" I replied, my voice a little rougher than I wanted.
He tilted his head slightly, as if weighing the question.
"I shoot at what deserves to be shot."
His gray eyes stayed locked on mine, unblinking. Not aggressive. Just… attentive. As if he was cataloging every detail: my still-rapid breathing, the slight tremble in my hands, the mud on my sleeves.
A silence passed, broken only by the wind rustling the pine needles.
Then he lowered his eyes, bent near a bramble bush, and picked something up.
My backpack.
He shook it once to dislodge dead leaves and stuck twigs, then stepped forward two paces and held it out to me, arm extended but without invading my space.
"I believe this is yours."
I took it without breaking eye contact. Our fingers didn't touch, but I still felt the weight of his presence, like a subtle pressure in the air.
I glanced back at the tree.
The arrow was still there, deeply embedded, black fletching gleaming faintly.
I took three steps, placed my hand on the rough bark, and yanked hard.
The arrow came out with a small, dry crack, leaving a clean hole and pale wood splinters.
I walked back to him, holding it by the shaft between thumb and index finger, and raised it to his eye level.
"And this… I think it's yours."
He took it without hurry, spun it once between his fingers as if checking it was intact, then slipped it into the quiver strapped across his back.
Another silence.
The wind swirled a few dead leaves between us.
He looked at me for another second, then gave a slight nod—not a greeting, not an apology, just a mute acknowledgment.
"Watch where you step," he said calmly. "Next time, I might aim a little more to the left."
He turned on his heel without waiting for a reply, slipping between the trunks with the same calm, assured stride. In a few steps, he almost completely vanished into the pine shadows, swallowed by the forest as if he belonged to it.
I stood there, motionless, backpack on my shoulder, the arrow still warm in my memory.
The silence settled between us, thick and almost palpable, after I'd handed him the arrow.
He took it without haste, his fingers barely brushing mine—a brief, cold contact, as if his skin held the temperature of the pine shadows. He spun the arrow between his fingers, inspected the sharp tip under a ray of light piercing the foliage, then slid it into his quiver with a precise, practiced motion.
The forest around us seemed to hold its breath. The wind slipped gently between the trunks, rustling the pine needles and the dead leaves carpeting the ground. In the distance, a crow let out a single, raw, cutting cry before taking flight with heavy wingbeats.
The man raised his eyes to me again.
His pale gray irises had an almost metallic sharpness, as if they saw farther than what I was showing. He studied me without embarrassment: the mud on my clothes, the leaves still stuck in my hair, the way I gripped my bag a little too tightly.
"You're not from around here," he said simply.
It wasn't a question. Just a statement, spoken in a deep, measured voice, without judgment.
I shrugged one shoulder, trying to keep my tone neutral.
"Not really, no."
He turned his head slightly, scanning the path I'd come from—or what was left of it: a vague trace through tall ferns, protruding roots, and brambles already reclaiming their space.
"This forest swallows people who don't respect it easily," he continued. "Paths change. Landmarks disappear. You think you know the way… and then you go in circles."
He took a step sideways, observed the ground: a half-erased shoe print, a recently broken branch, a flipped leaf showing its lighter underside. He read the landscape like an open book.
Then his eyes returned to me.
"If you want, I can walk you back to the edge. It's not far."
The offer was calm, almost polite. Not insistent. The kind of thing you say out of habit when you run into someone who looks lost.
I paused for a second.
The wind passed between us, carrying the cold smell of moss and damp humus.
I adjusted the strap of my bag on my shoulder.
"Thanks, but I'll be fine."
He stared at me for another moment, as if weighing my words, trying to figure out if it was pride, distrust, or just stupidity.
A small smile—barely visible—brushed his lips.
"As you wish."
I took a step back, ready to leave.
The forest suddenly felt denser, the shadows longer between the trunks.
"Be careful anyway," he added, voice still just as calm.
I stopped.
"About what?"
He gave a slight shrug, almost imperceptible.
"About what hides between the trees. Sometimes you don't see right away what's watching you."
His words hung there for a moment, neither threat nor clear warning—just a phrase that sounded like an old habit from someone who spent too much time alone here.
I looked him straight in the eyes, trying to guess if he was bluffing or really knew something.
Then I nodded slowly.
"I'll keep that in mind."
I turned and started walking.
I felt his gaze on my back for a good ten steps—heavy, attentive, without hostility but without warmth either.
Then silence returned.
Just the crunch of my soles on dead leaves, the breath of wind in the high branches, and that persistent feeling that the forest hadn't finished speaking to me.
And that he, the hunter, knew exactly what it was saying. I kept walking between the trees, back turned to the hunter. For a good ten steps, I could still feel his gaze weighing on the back of my neck—not aggressive, just present, like a subtle pressure that didn't fade. Then the sound of my soles on the dead leaves finally drowned out everything else. The wind took over again: it rustled the pine needles, gently stirred the high branches, and brought back that familiar smell of damp moss, bark, and churned earth.
I walked without hurrying, trying to spot landmarks—a rock shaped like a donkey's back, a cluster of white birches, the wider trace of the path we'd taken on the way in. But the trees all looked the same: same grayish trunks, same tall ferns scratching at my calves, same long shadows dancing on the ground. For a moment, I genuinely thought I'd gone in circles.
Then a voice cracked on my right, slicing the silence like a whip.
"JAHER!"
I spun around.
Jackson burst out from behind a curtain of young firs, half-running, followed closely by Rickie. Both were short of breath, cheeks flushed, hair tousled as if they'd been slaloming between trunks for ten minutes.
Jackson stopped dead in front of me, hands on hips, panting.
"Damn, where the hell were you?! We looked everywhere!"
Rickie crossed his arms, still catching his breath.
"Seriously, we thought you took another path or fell into a hole."
I frowned.
"I just tied my laces. When I stood up, you were gone. Not a sound, nothing."
Jackson threw his hands up.
"Dude, you were the one lagging behind! We kept going two minutes, turned around… no one."
Rickie sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.
"We went around in circles like idiots for a quarter hour yelling your name."
I stayed silent for a second.
"I ran into someone."
Both of them froze at the same time.
"Someone?" Jackson repeated, eyes wide.
I nodded.
"A hunter."
Rickie raised an eyebrow.
"Here? In this forest?"
I told them quickly: the deer that slammed into me full force, the arrow that planted itself centimeters from my head, the man who stepped out from the trees—calm, tall, blond, pale gray eyes, bow in hand. No direct threat, but that way of speaking that gave the impression he knew exactly what he was doing.
Jackson whistled through his teeth.
"Wait… he almost put an arrow through your skull?"
"Technically, yeah."
Rickie shook his head, half-annoyed, half-impressed.
"Great. We come explore to decompress after the Calc test, and you almost get turned into an archery target."
Jackson burst out laughing, nervous but genuine.
"Honestly, that would've made an insane story for the school group chat. 'Jaher gets hunted like a deer, filmed in 4K by a blond sniper with wolf eyes.''' I rolled my eyes.
"Let's head back. I'm done with this forest."
Rickie didn't even protest.
"For once, I'm voting yes at 200 %."
We walked back together, sticking closer this time. The return path was clearer: we quickly found the wider trail, then the gentle slope leading up to the school fence, then the cracked asphalt of the back courtyard. Little by little, the sounds returned – a distant car honking, the hum of a plane overhead, student voices still lingering near the sports fields. Normal life was taking over again.
An hour later, we pushed open the door to my place.
The house was quiet, as it always was in the late afternoon. I tossed my bag onto the couch and threw open the living-room window. Fresh air rushed in, chasing away the lingering forest smell on my clothes.
Jackson collapsed onto the couch like he'd just run a half-marathon.
"Finally."
Rickie sat on the chair across from us, legs stretched out, looking around.
"Okay… run us through the hunter scene again. Slowly."
I grabbed three bottles of water from the fridge and set them on the coffee table.
"There's not much more to tell."
Jackson snatched a bottle, twisted off the cap.
"Yeah, there is. The juicy details."
He grinned, a crooked smile.
"What did he look like, physically?"
I sighed, sinking into the old armchair facing them.
"Blond. Hair a bit long, messy. Gray eyes – really gray, like steel. Tall, built but not bodybuilder bulky. Normal hunting gear, nothing flashy. Calm voice. Too calm."
Jackson whistled softly.
"Okay… that's hot. Sounds like a Netflix character who just stepped out of nowhere."
Rickie shook his head, laughing.
"You two are seriously messed up."
I leaned back in the armchair. Evening light slanted through the window, painting orange stripes across the rug. Outside, a car rolled slowly down the street, engine purring softly. The world was settling back into its quiet rhythm.
Jackson took a long swig, sighed in satisfaction.
"Seriously… after this shitty day – the AP test that wrecked us, the forest, the kamikaze deer, the blond sniper – just chilling here feels amazing."
Rickie opened a bag of chips that was lying on the table.
"We skipped class, almost got lost, almost got skewered… Classic senior year day."
Jackson burst out laughing.
"Exactly. We're fucking legends."
I smiled despite myself, grabbed a chip.
For the first time since morning, everything felt light. No derivatives to calculate, no arrows whistling, no gray eyes staring from the shadows.
Just the three of us, sprawled in the living room, talking nonsense as night fell gently outside.
A normal evening. Chill.
But deep inside, like a small ember that refused to die out: I could still see those pale gray eyes fixed on me between the trees.
The orange evening light had almost vanished. We were still lounging in the living room: Jackson sprawled on the couch like a fallen king, Rickie munching the last chips while scrolling on his phone, me in the armchair with my legs over the armrest.
Jackson suddenly lifted his head, a grin already forming.
"Wait, wait…" he said, pointing his water bottle at me like a gun. "Blond. Gray eyes. Tall. Built. Deep voice. Calm. Too calm."
He paused for dramatic effect, then propped himself up on his elbows.
"My dude… that guy… he's just gonna fuck you."
Rickie nearly choked on a chip.
"What?!"
Jackson kept going, imitating a deep, raspy voice (very badly):
"He's gonna pin you against a tree, fill your hole with his big hunter cock, pound you until you forget your name, then dump his entire load inside… and in your mouth too, so you can taste it till morning."
He burst out laughing alone, clutching his sides.
"And you'll just have time to say 'thank you mister blond sniper' before spitting everywhere."
Rickie rolled his eyes so hard they looked like they might get stuck.
"You're seriously disgusting, Jackson. Olympic-level gross."
I stayed deadpan for two seconds, then said:
"You done with your porno fanfic or are you continuing?"
Jackson flopped back onto the cushions, cackling.
"Come on, admit it… gray eyes, the arrow, the 'watch what's hiding between the trees'… that's straight-up gay forest porn dialogue! He didn't miss you by much with that arrow; next time it's his dick he's gonna plant."
Rickie threw a cushion at his face.
"Shut up, you're gonna give us nightmares because of this."
Jackson dodged it, laughing even harder.
"Come on, Jaher, own it. You kinda liked it, right? The piercing stare, the half-smile, the whole 'I could kill you but I'd rather fuck you' vibe…"
I sighed, but a small smile slipped out anyway.
"You're an idiot."
"Yeah, but I'm not blind. That guy left a mark on you, dude. You're still talking about him even though he almost skewered you."
Rickie shook his head.
"You two are hopeless."
Jackson raised his bottle like a toast.
"To Jaher and his future woodland hookup! May the hunter's cum flow freely!"
I threw the empty chip bag at his face.
"Go fuck yourself."
He laughed one last time, then calmed down a bit, still grinning like an idiot.
"Seriously though… be careful if you go back into that forest. Because I bet he's already waiting with his bow… and something else."
The living room was bathed in that soft evening light, with just the table lamp illuminating our tired faces. Jackson wasn't done yet. He sat up on the couch, eyes sparkling like he'd just come up with the joke of the century.
"Wait, wait, I'm not finished," he said, raising both hands for silence.
Rickie groaned already:
"Please, Jackson, we get the concept…"
"No no no, listen carefully. Picture the scene."
He started acting it out, deep theatrical voice imitating the hunter:
"'I hunt… what deserves to be shot.' And then he looks at you, Jaher, with those steel-gray eyes, like 'you're my number-one prey tonight.' He leans his bow against the tree, slowly, like in a soft porno flick. He steps closer, gently pins you against the trunk – not too hard, gotta keep the merchandise intact – and whispers in your ear:"
Jackson lowered his voice, trying for sexy-gruff:
"'You saw my arrow earlier? That was just the warm-up. The real one's bigger… and it's gonna fill you until your legs go numb.'"
He paused dramatically, then sped up:
"And then, bam! He flips you around, yanks your pants down in one pull, and pounds you right against the tree. Bark scratching, leaves falling, wind whooshing through the branches while he rails you like a horny lumberjack. And he fills you, dude. Fills you so much that when he pulls out, it drips down your thighs like hot sap. And he finishes by shoving his still-dripping cock in your mouth: 'Open wide, little deer. Taste what the forest has to offer.'"
Jackson mimed an exaggerated deep-throat gesture with ridiculous slurping sounds, then exploded in laughter, holding his stomach.
Rickie was doubled over in his chair, tears in his eyes, unable to speak.
"Stop… stop… I'm gonna puke from laughing…"
I hid my face in my hands, but I was laughing too – nervous, uncontrollable laughter that hurt my stomach.
"You're seriously the worst, Jackson. The. Worst."
He flopped back on the couch, wiping a tear of laughter.
"And the best part is, tomorrow morning you'll wake up with bark marks on your back, hunter cum dried in your hair, and you'll think: 'Fuck… that wasn't a dream.'"
Rickie finally caught his breath.
"You've got serious issues. Like, go see a therapist. Or a priest. Or both."
Jackson raised his water bottle like a toast.
"To Jaher and his future forest husband! May his hole be blessed and well-filled!"
The three of us burst out laughing at the same time – a loud, stupid, collective fit that shook the windows. We laughed so hard we almost forgot why we were laughing in the first place.
The evening went on like that: shitty jokes, flying chips, sparkling water bubbling everywhere. But the whole time, in the middle of the chaos, I still felt that weird little shiver in my gut.
Not because of Jackson and his nonsense.
Just because of those gray eyes that, even amid the laughter, refused to completely leave my head.