Chapter 2: The Rule of One

The Rule was simple. The Rule was absolute. The Rule was the reason Lena was still breathing. Travel alone. Trust no one. Survive.

The phrase was ingrained into her very being from the painful experiences she had gone through. The man lying in the dirt went against everything she believed in.

Her mind screamed at her to walk away. He was a dead man, just taking longer than most. Leaving him was the smart move, the only move. He was a burden, a risk. His blood would attract dangerous creatures, with his mere existence alerting scavengers and warlords in the vicinity.

Every logical intuition, every experience gained in this harsh, broken world, urged her to walk away and allow the forest to take him.

But she was unable to.

Was it the tattoo? Maybe it was the unique and damaged beauty of it.

Or perhaps it was the simply unbelievable miracle of his survival. She couldn't say for sure. What she did know was that as she watched, the rain washing away the blood from his injuries, she recognized a reflection of her own intense battle in him. She saw someone else desperately clinging to the brink.

She gave out a loud curse as she made her decision, feeling guilty for choosing to stay.

She despised herself for showing vulnerability and weakness. But, the idea of abandoning him and letting him died out here was even worse.

Taking him back to the station was extremely difficult. He was unconscious and very heavy. She couldn't carry both him and the converter at the same time, so she decided to hide the machine in a hollow log and made a mark on the bark with her knife. She planned to come back for it later.

…That is, if she was still alive.

She wrapped his arm over her shoulders and heaved. He was taller than her, and his limp body was an anchor threatening to drag them both down.

She partially carried him, and mostly dragged him through the mud, her muscles screaming in protest, her breath coming in ragged, burning gasps.

The half-mile journey felt like a hundred. Every snapped twig, every rustle of leaves, sent a jolt of panic through her. The risk was high. She was exposed, slow, and broadcasting her presence to anything with teeth.

Finally, the familiar, imposing silhouette of her fortified ranger station rose from the gloom. It was a relic of the Old World, built of stone and reinforced timber, now layered with her own additions: sheets of scavenged steel over the windows, a heavy, bolted gate, and a perimeter of razor wire and cruel, hidden snares. It was her shell, her fortress against the world. It was a place for one.

She used all her remaining energy to pull the man through the gate, and the heavy metal bar locked in place with a loud thud.

Safety. At least for now.

The inside air smelled dry with a mix of metal and woodsmoke. The hearth had a smoldering fire, giving the room a warm glow.

She dragged and placed him on top the old bearskin rug that she slept on, finding it ironic that her only solace was now being shared with someone she didn't know.

She removed her damp clothing with ease, her gestures precise and mechanical. Next, she shifted her focus to him.

She carefully used her knife to take off the old, damaged remaining pieces of his clothing.

He had various injuries, but it was the large wound on his side that caught her attention. The deep, uneven cut appeared to be from shrapnel or a Crawler's claw. One would expect it to be bleeding heavily, but surprisingly, it wasn't.

Getting closer, with the beam of her flashlight steady, she noticed something that sent shivers down her spines.

The blood that gathered around the injury was clotting in a peculiar way, different from anything she had seen before. It formed a dark and almost crystal-like structure, quickly closing the wound with an unusual speed.

Instead of the usual healing process, it looked like a unique organic type of healing happening right in front of her.

She looked at the tattoo once more, this time under the bright, cozy glow of the fire. The broken moon symbol was not just a decorative image; it seemed to represent something important, the ink permanently embedded in his skin. The design was dramatic, sorrowful, and completely otherworldly.

While cleaning his wounds, she felt a sense of intrusion. This intimate act was something she hadn't done since childhood. Touching and caring for another person made her feel vulnerable, a weakness she had learned to hate. Her rule to travel alone was not just for physical safety but emotional protection as well. She had just broken her own rule.

After bandaging his wounds quickly and almost angrily, she saw him as a mere problem to be fixed. She believed he would recover and leave, allowing her to return to her lonely, routine life.

She sat on her heels, tired, observing his chest moving slowly. The quiet station felt strange, almost suffocating. The silence was filled with his heartbeat and she felt like she was trapped.

As though hearing her thoughts,the man began to wake up. He let out a quiet moan and his eyes started to flutter before finally opening slowly and with difficulty.

Lena stopped breathing and reached for the knife on her belt.

His eyes were a striking, crystal clear grey, similar to a stormy sky. They quickly looked around the room, observing the stone walls, the fire, and the shadows. Before they finally settled on her.

There was no recognition or understanding in his eyes, only a vast emptiness.

But as he saw her cautious stance and the knife at her side, he felt a primal emotion fill the void within him.

Pure intense fear.