Florian barely had time to
think
—his body had already started to drop. Instinct overrode logic, legs bending, ready to beg, to plead, to get on his knees if he had to. His mind
raced
through possible excuses, desperate to explain himself, to say
something
that might keep whoever grabbed him from dragging him straight to whatever
passed
for a prison in this cursed village.
But then—
He turned.
And the words
died
in his throat.
A girl.
Younger than him. Sixteen, maybe seventeen, though something about her—her thin frame, the way she carried herself—made her seem smaller.
Fragile.
Pale. Too pale.
Her skin looked almost
translucent
in the dim light, her face gaunt, sunken, like she hadn’t eaten in days. Hollow, dark eyes met his—sharp despite their emptiness, framed by strands of limp black hair clinging to her face.
For a moment, Florian could only
stare
. His pulse, which had been hammering wildly with panic,
stuttered
.
’Who...?’
She didn’t speak.
She didn’t
explain
.
She just
pulled
.
Not harshly, not violently—but
firmly
.
Dragging him away from the storage unit with silent, unwavering intent.
Florian hesitated. His instincts screamed at him to
resist
, to yank himself free, to demand answers—but something in him whispered,
Follow.
So he did.
His feet stumbled slightly as he fell into step beside her, his mind still
reeling
. His breath remained uneven, the putrid scent of rot
clawing
at his senses, but as they moved—
He noticed.
The
smell was fading
.
The nausea in his gut loosened, the sickly burn in his throat dulling. Each step they took away from that door made the sensation lessen, until finally—
It was
gone
.
Florian’s stomach twisted.
The girl hadn’t gagged. Hadn’t flinched.
Hadn’t
reacted
at all.
Like she couldn’t smell it.
At
all.
His throat felt
dry
.
"What—" His voice cracked. He swallowed hard, tried again. "Who are you?"
She didn’t look at him. Didn’t
pause
.
But she
did
speak.
"First, tell me what you were doing there."
Her voice was quiet. Steady.
Measured.
Florian hesitated. He could
lie
—say he was lost, say it was some mistake, some misunderstanding—but if she had already
seen
everything, if she had
known
he was there from the start, wouldn’t lying just make things worse?
So instead, he exhaled slowly.
"I smelled something," he admitted. "Something
horrible
. It was coming from that storage unit, so I just—I wanted to check it out."
The girl’s grip
tightened
slightly.
Then, she shook her head.
"There’s no smell."
Florian
blinked
.
"What?"
"You’re probably just losing your mind." The girl finally glanced at him, her expression unreadable. "It’s your first time in the village, isn’t it?"
His mouth opened—nothing came out at first.
That couldn’t be right.
He
knew
what he smelled.
He
knew
how it made him sick, how it
burned
his eyes, how it
coated
the inside of his lungs like filth—
But.
No one else reacted to it.
No one.
The nausea in his gut coiled tighter, sharper. This time, it wasn’t from the stench.
Florian wanted to press. To
argue
, to demand an explanation—
But more than anything, he wanted to know
who this girl was.
She finally stopped walking when they had put enough distance between themselves and the storage unit, turning to face him fully.
Her posture was guarded. Careful.
"That place belongs to the village chief and the elder members," she said. "No one’s allowed near it."
Florian exhaled sharply. "I didn’t know." Running a hand through his hair, he forced down the lingering unease rattling in his chest. "Sorry."
The girl studied him for a moment.
Then, she crossed her arms over her chest.
The movement was so
familiar
—sharp, defensive, but not threatening.
For just a second, Florian was reminded of
Kaz.
The memory hit him like a dull ache to the ribs.
He swallowed.
"Who are you?" His gaze flickered over her pale face again. "And why are you out here? You look—" he hesitated, searching for the right word. "Sick."
A pause.
The girl didn’t answer at first.
Then, finally—
"...Leila."
Florian’s breath came in shallow, uneven gasps. His body refused to move.
’This is her.’
Leila.
The name echoed in his skull, louder than it should have, rattling around like a cruel reminder.
His hands went clammy. His chest felt too
tight
. His throat too
dry
.
This was Levi’s sister.
The same Levi who had thrown himself into death’s jaws just to get Florian out. The same Levi who had died—brutally, horribly—because of Florian.
His lips parted, but no sound came out. His pulse hammered in his ears, deafening.
She had his eyes.
Now that he was
really
looking, he could see it—the same sharp, piercing gaze, the same intensity, even if hers were dulled by sickness and exhaustion. But
unlike
Levi, her body looked
fragile
. Frail, barely held together, as if the weight of existing was simply
too much
.
Florian felt
sick
.
His lungs squeezed, and suddenly—
He was back there.
Trapped. Bound. Helpless.
The scent of
blood
thick in the air, clogging his throat. Arthur’s voice, cruel and mocking.
Levi’s breathing—ragged. Desperate.
Then—
The
branches
.
Dozens of them.
Piercing
through flesh, through
bone.
Levi’s
scream
—raw, broken—still clung to the edges of Florian’s memory, like a wound that refused to
close.
His stomach
lurched
.
A sharp inhale cut through the haze.
Leila shifted, tilting her head slightly.
"...What’s wrong?"
Florian barely registered the question. His throat was
too dry
, his chest
too tight
.
"I—" His voice cracked. He swallowed, forcing the words out.
"I’m sorry."
Leila
stiffened
.
Florian dropped his gaze. His hands clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms.
"I’m sorry," he whispered again. And again.
And again.
Because what
else
could he say?
How could he tell her?
’Your brother saved me. And I let him die.’
The words
curled
inside his skull like a curse.
He had no
right
to stand in front of her.
’I thought I could do this. I thought I could just apologize and help. But seeing her now...fuck.’
The guilt he had spent the past few days
shoving down
, the same guilt that had been
eating him alive
, was back in full force—crawling up his throat like bile.
Leila’s voice pulled him back.
"Why are you apologizing?" Her expression shifted—uncertainty flickering in her dark eyes. "My... brother sent you, didn’t he?" A pause. A hesitation.
Then—
"What... happened?"
Florian
looked
at her.
She was waiting.
Expecting
something.
She didn’t
know
.
The realization sent a fresh, vicious stab of pain through his chest.
He had to calm himself.
Now.
He had to tell her. She
deserved
to know.
He wasn’t the one who had lost everything.
He wasn’t the
victim.
So he forced himself to breathe.
In.
Out.
Again.
Again.
Finally, he found his voice.
"I have to tell you something."