The morning sun was soft over the grasslands, a pale gold that touched everything with warmth. Dew clung to the tall blades of grass, shining like small stars as Lin Ziao walked through them, his spear hanging lazily on his shoulder. The air was fresh — fresh in a way the forest had never been.
He'd been here for a while now, long enough that the land didn't feel like he was running anymore, but more like he was staying. His hut sat quietly behind him on the hill, small but strong. And under it, the bunker waited — dark and safe.
But safety didn't mean much if you were hungry.
Lin Ziao's food was almost gone. The fish in the river had stopped biting and the last meat he smoked had gone hard. So, he woke up early that morning to hunt, hoping the grasslands had something to offer him today.
He moved carefully, eyes scanning the ground. The tall grass brushed against his hands as he walked, whispering in the breeze. Every small sound made him stop — the flap of a wing, the faint rustle somewhere far.
Then he spotted it — a trail. Small paw prints, light and quick. Maybe a rabbit. Maybe something else.
"Hmm," he muttered, crouching down. "Still fresh."
He followed them quietly, step by step, his boots sinking into the soft soil. Hunting always made him calm. It made him forget the noise in his head — the village, Peng Cheng's voice, the way people had looked at him.
The sun was climbing higher now, burning his shoulders, when he heard it — a sharp noise, like something struggling.
He froze.
It came from the tall reeds by a fallen log. Something was caught, thrashing weakly. Lin Ziao crept closer, crouched low. His heart started to beat a little faster.
He pushed the grass aside and saw it.
A fox.
Small, maybe half grown. Its fur was bright orange-red, glowing under the sun, but the leg — its leg was caught in a metal snare. Blood darkened the fur there, and it was panting, eyes wide with fear.
Lin Ziao felt his chest tighten.
"Hey," he said softly. "Don't move, I'm not here to hurt you."
The fox growled a little, low and weak. It tried to back away but couldn't. The wire was cutting deep. Lin Ziao set his spear down and knelt in the grass.
He'd always liked foxes. There was something in them — wild but clever, always surviving.
Slowly, he reached out a hand. The fox tensed but didn't bite. He gripped the snare, feeling the rough metal dig into his skin.
"Hold still," he said, more to himself than to the fox.
He yanked the wire apart with a hard twist. It snapped free with a small metallic sound. The fox cried out, then went limp, breathing fast.
Lin Ziao stayed there for a moment, breathing too. "It's okay," he said quietly. "It's over now."
He lifted the fox gently. It was lighter than he thought — fragile, almost weightless. The fur was warm under his hands. He carried it all the way back to his hut, the fox barely moving, just breathing shallow and fast.
Back inside, he set it near the fire pit and cleaned the wound. The bleeding wasn't too bad, but it needed care. He tore some cloth from his sleeve, wrapped the leg carefully, and fed it small pieces of dried meat.
The fox didn't bite, didn't growl. It just looked at him — tired, watchful.
"There," Lin Ziao said with a small smile. "You'll be fine, little one."
The fire crackled softly as the evening came. The hut smelled of smoke and warm earth. Outside, the grass moved with the wind, whispering against the walls.
Lin Ziao sat there for a long time, just listening. The fox had curled up close to the fire, its breathing even and slow now.
He felt something ease inside him. A kind of peace he hadn't felt since before everything went wrong.
"Guess it's just us now," he said quietly, not expecting an answer.
The firelight danced across the walls, the wind hummed.
When Lin Ziao finally lay down, he didn't dream of running anymore. He just dreamed of the grass swaying under the moon, and a small fox sleeping beside him.