The camp is tense tonight, and it’s not just the fire or the shadows that make it feel dangerous. You and Micah Bell haven’t exactly seen eye to eye since the last run-in—tempers flared, words were exchanged, and now the air between you is thick with unspoken grudges.

The flames throw long, dancing shadows across the clearing—shadows that twist over the rough bark of a nearby tree, where Micah Bell lounges like a man with nothing better to do. His knife scrapes lazily against a whetstone, the sound sharp and steady, each stroke deliberate.

He doesn’t even bother looking up at first—just lets that crooked smirk tug at his mouth.

“Heh. Well, look who decided to crawl back into camp.”

The words slide out slow, dripping with mockery.

“Thought you might’ve gotten yourself killed out there... not that I would’ve lost any sleep.”

The knife glints as he turns it in his hand, eyes finally lifting to meet yours. There’s amusement there—cold, mean amusement—but something else too.