Kapitel 19: Hikers

Now, with the gear they'd left behind, everything felt different. For the first time in months, I had proper clothes again. They were oversized, sure, but they were warm and better than the makeshift scraps I'd been using. A tent, a sleeping bag, and even some basic spices—salt, pepper, sugar—things I hadn't realized how much I missed until now. There was even about 3 kg of rice and some chicken, beef, and other food supplies they must have packed for their trip. It wasn't much, but to me, it was like hitting the jackpot.

The fishing rod was a bonus. I didn't need it, not really—I'd been making do with the traps and nets I'd set up around the river—but there was something comforting about the idea of fishing. It was something peaceful, almost normal, in a life that had been anything but.

My survival will be easier from now on. With real ropes and better tools, I could upgrade my traps, make them stronger and more effective. The sleeping bag was a game changer. No more waking up in the middle of the night to feed the fire, shivering from the cold. I could finally sleep through the night, wrapped in warmth and comfort. It was something I hadn't had since… well, since before all this started.

I moved the camp to my spot, a place I had already fortified over the months. Setting everything up took time, but it felt good—organizing, arranging things in a way that made sense, making the space both functional and, in a way, beautiful. I wasn't just surviving now; I was building something, a small corner of the wilderness that was mine.

The oversized clothes they'd left behind were too big for me. I wasn't exactly a tailor, but I'd read enough to have an idea of what needed to be done. My previous life hadn't taught me much about sewing, but I knew my way around knots and basic repairs. I could tie things together and patch things up well enough. Still, cutting the clothes to size felt like a bigger task than I was ready for. For now, it could wait.

I took a moment to step back and look at the camp. It was secure, organized, and—dare I say it—almost homey. The fire pit was in the center, surrounded by neatly stacked firewood. The tent was pitched near the edge of the clearing, with the sleeping bag rolled out inside. The fishing rod was propped against a tree, ready for when I had time to just sit by the river and cast a line.

Life had changed so much, but here, in this small, well-ordered space, I felt like I had some control again. I wasn't just a pawn in my father's brutal game of survival. I was building something for myself, even if it was just a temporary reprieve.

Night had fallen, and the northern lights danced across the sky, casting an ethereal glow over the landscape. It was breathtaking—the swirling greens and purples lighting up the heavens like nature's own silent fireworks. For the first time in months, I felt a kind of peace. Sitting by the river, with the crackling fire beside me, I cast my fishing line into the water, the calm sound of the stream blending with the soft rustle of the wind in the trees.

This was better than meditation, I thought, the stillness of the moment settling over me like a blanket. Out here, in the quiet, under the dancing lights of the sky, I almost didn't feel lonely.

I didn't catch any fish, but it didn't matter. This wasn't about survival right now. This was just for me, a moment of calm amid the storm. A luxury I rarely allowed myself. I had enough food in reserve, plenty to get by for the next few days. The fishing was just for fun, a reminder of simpler times—before all of this, before the isolation and the brutal training.

Still, the night was growing colder, and I knew it was time to rest. I banked the fire, letting the last embers glow softly as I made my way back to the tent. My sleeping bag was waiting for me, laid out on the new winter-ready sleeping pad that was softer and warmer than anything I'd used since being thrown into this ordeal.

As I crawled inside, the comfort surprised me. It felt almost... cozy, like something I hadn't felt in ages. And as I lay there, the memories of my previous life crept back in.

I thought about the camping trips I used to take—the times with my family and friends, sitting around a campfire like this, roasting marshmallows, telling stories, laughing at stupid jokes. It felt like a lifetime ago, but in this moment, wrapped in warmth, I could almost pretend I was back there.

There was a strange sense of nostalgia, a bittersweet longing for a time that no longer existed. I missed those days, the simplicity of them, the ease of life before everything had changed. Before I had to become something... different.

But I couldn't dwell on that for long. Those days were gone, and this was my reality now. The cold, the isolation, the training—it was all part of the path I had to walk. Even if I didn't want it, even if I missed the comfort of my old life, I had to keep moving forward.

Still, for tonight, in this small, cozy corner of the wilderness, I allowed myself to remember. To let the memories of who I used to be wrap around me like the sleeping bag I was nestled in. Tomorrow would come soon enough. But tonight, at least, I could let myself rest.

Hikers POV:

We were out camping, enjoying a much-needed break from work. It was supposed to be a simple vacation—a week in the mountains, away from the noise and stress of the city. Nothing fancy, just us and the wilderness. The place we'd picked wasn't a popular destination—more remote, more quiet. Perfect for some peace and solitude, or so we thought.

The day had been cold, around -10 degrees Celsius, but we were well-prepared. Tents set up, fire going, layers of thermal clothes, boots, and mittens—all the essentials to keep warm. We were settled, enjoying the crisp air, when he appeared.

A child. No older than maybe 8 or 9 years old. He came out of nowhere, stumbling into our camp like something out of a dream—or a nightmare. He looked like he'd been out here for weeks, if not longer. Dirty, his clothes crudely fashioned from animal skins, and his feet... bare. No shoes, no mittens, nothing to protect him from the freezing cold.

His skin was scarred. He didn't seem right. His face—too serious, too haunted for someone so young—had a strange, forced smile, like he was trying to seem normal but didn't know how. It made my heart sink.

We were shaken—both by the shock of seeing a kid like this out in the wilderness and by the fact that he looked like he'd been through hell. We didn't know what to say, how to react. How could we?

The cold was biting, even with all our gear, but here was this child, standing in front of us, in nothing but rags, yet somehow holding himself together. It was hard to wrap my mind around it. He should've been hypothermic, maybe even dead. But he wasn't.

I finally asked, my voice barely above a whisper, "Where are your parents?"

The words felt ridiculous, but what else could I say? What kind of situation puts a kid out here, alone, in the dead of winter?

He hesitated for a second, like he was deciding whether or not to tell us the truth. That pause told me more than his words could. Finally, he shrugged. "I'm fine, just been out here for a while. My dad's around somewhere, but, you know, we got… our own way of living."

My heart sank. His dad? What kind of parent would leave their child out here like this? The more I looked at him, the worse it got. His body was covered in scars, some old, some newer, all of them telling a story I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

"Look," he continued, taking a step closer, his voice steady but filled with urgency, "I just wanted to see if you had anything to trade. Food, spices, whatever. I've got some stuff too." He gestured toward the small pouch hanging from his belt, but it wasn't much. He looked desperate, yet strangely calm at the same time.

We exchanged uneasy glances. Trading? This kid didn't need food—he needed help. But he wasn't asking for help. He was asking for spices. Who asks for spices in the middle of the wilderness, dressed in rags? My partner was already moving toward his bag, fumbling with something inside, probably his phone. He seemed as stunned as I was, but we both knew this wasn't right. Something was off. Very off.

I tried to gather some information, hoping that, since he was a kid, maybe it wouldn't be too hard. Maybe he'd open up if we were gentle. "Hey, what's your name? Do you know the number of your parents?" My voice came out softer than I expected, and there was a part of me that hoped this would make him feel safer. If I could get his parents' number, I could report this. Whatever this was—it had to be reported.

The kid shook his head, his voice trembling slightly but with an undercurrent of something deeper—fear. "No," he said. "But don't call anyone, please. For your sake and mine. Just trade me some spices or food, and forget you saw me."

My heart skipped a beat. There was something in his tone—something more than just a child asking for food. Panic. Fear. Desperation. What kind of situation was this? What kind of fear drives a kid to say something like that?

I didn't know how to respond. My throat went dry as I tried to make sense of it all. Who was this kid? Why was he alone? And what kind of fear was he living with, out here in the wilderness, that made him so adamant about keeping us from calling anyone?

I glanced at my partner again, his hand still hovering near his phone. We both felt it—the weight of the situation, the unnerving realization that this wasn't just some lost child looking for food. This was something else.

I tried again, this time, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to sound calm. "Why don't you want us to call anyone?" I was hoping to get some information, something that would make sense. We were just normal office workers, a couple out on a weekend retreat. We weren't prepared for something like this. We didn't know how to get information out of a child without scaring him, especially when he looked as rough as he did. His clothes, the scars—he was clearly mistreated. I didn't want to push him, but I needed to understand.

The kid swallowed hard, and I could see the tension in his body growing. "We're just trying to help, you know," I said gently, though the tension in my voice was hard to hide. I wasn't sure if I was making it worse or better, but I had to try. "We have some cacao we can make by the fire, and I can find you something warmer to wear." My eyes drifted down to his feet, which were bare, red, and cracked from the cold. "You don't even have real shoes. You could get frostbite out here."

His feet. That's what got to me most. No child should be walking around in the snow like that. Not like this. How long had he been out here? And how could anyone let this happen to a kid? Where were his parents?

His pulse must've been racing, because mine sure was.

His voice grew firmer. "Listen, you really can't call anyone. My dad—he's dangerous. If he finds out you tried to help me, he won't just come for me. He'll come for you, too."

The air froze. We both stared at him, our eyes widening. Dangerous? What did that mean? What kind of father is dangerous enough to make a kid say something like that?

I could barely find my voice, my throat tightening as I held the phone. It suddenly felt like it weighed a ton, like a loaded weapon I didn't know how to handle. "Dangerous?" The word came out before I could stop myself. Dangerous? His dad? What could he mean by that?

But then I realized just how stupid the question sounded. What was I even asking? Here was a kid, barely old enough to fend for himself, standing alone in the freezing cold, dressed in rags and covered in scars, and I was asking him what he meant by dangerous? His fear wasn't some figment of his imagination. I should've known that much already. Yet I was panicking, trying to grasp at something that would make sense in a situation that made none.

The kid tried again, his voice shaky but firm, the fear creeping in around the edges. "He's... different. You can't fight him. No one can. If you make that call, you're putting yourselves at risk. Just... please, don't."

His words hit me like a punch to the gut. You can't fight him. What was that supposed to mean? What kind of parent instills this kind of fear in their own child? My mind raced, picturing all sorts of scenarios, none of them good. Was this kid running from someone—hiding from someone? What kind of hell was he living in? I felt a surge of anger building inside me. Who does this to a kid?

My face softened as I took a step closer, lowering myself to his level. I tried to meet his eyes, though they were darting around like a trapped animal, constantly searching for an escape. I had to try and get through to him, to make him feel like he wasn't alone. "Hey," I said gently, trying to keep my voice steady, calm. "You don't have to be afraid. We can get you help."

He stared at me, but the fear didn't leave his eyes. In fact, it seemed to deepen, like he was pulling further into himself, as if the word help terrified him more than anything else.

"Your dad might be tough," I continued, though I wasn't sure what I was even saying at this point. I was fumbling for words, trying to connect with him somehow. "But there are people who can protect you. You don't have to stay out here alone."

There was a small flicker in his eyes, just for a second, as if the idea of being protected—a normal life, even—had stirred something in him. For that brief moment, I could see the boy behind the scars, behind the fear. A boy who maybe wanted to be helped. But then, just as quickly, that flicker was snuffed out.

His expression hardened again, that defensive wall slamming back into place. He shook his head, more vigorously now, his voice firm and desperate. "No. You don't understand. He's not like anyone you've ever met. I'm not afraid for myself. I'm afraid for you. He'll kill you if he finds out."

The air around us seemed to freeze. The gravity of his words sank in, and my blood ran cold. Kill us? I glanced at my partner, who stood a few feet away, phone in hand, his face etched with confusion and fear. This wasn't just about helping a lost kid anymore. This was something else. Something much darker.

What kind of person was this kid's father?