The tent felt too warm.
Canvas walls absorbed the afternoon heat, trapping it inside until the air itself hung thick and heavy—like breathing through wool soaked in sunlight. The muted glow filtering through seams in the fabric painted everything in dusty gold: the crates stacked along the walls, the suspended lantern swaying slightly in a draft, the clutter of bowls and medical supplies. Somewhere behind the tent, a generator hummed—a low, constant vibration that tunneled into the bones.
The smell was a mixture of everything: boiled herbs from the medicine pot, the metallic tang of blood, sweat soaked into cotton blankets, faint antiseptic cutting weakly through it all. Human breath. Dirt. Survival.
And from the flap of the medical tent—
"Keep yelling," Porpo said flatly, "and I'll kill you myself, ass... hole."
The words came out sharp, slicing the warm air. But as she stepped inside and froze, the atmosphere shifted.
Her gaze landed on the scene before her: Jane hovering over Jagger, cheeks pink, hands awkwardly gripping the blanket that covered him from the waist down. The silence stretched long enough for tension to crystallize.
Jane jolted upright as if electrocuted. "Porpo! It's not what it looks like! He was—I mean I was just—"
"Yeah, go on. I'm listening." Porpo set the tray of steaming food onto a crate beside him and dropped into a chair with exaggerated grace. One leg crossed over the other like she owned the whole camp.
"Nothing happened!" Jane protested, flailing her arms. "I was just helping him lie down!"
"Helping, huh? Sure. That's what we're calling it now." Porpo smirked, chin propped lazily against her palm. "So just to confirm—you were leaning on top of him, 'helping him lie down.' Got it."
"PORPO!" Jane turned to Jagger in helpless panic. "Tell her nothing happened!"
But Jagger wasn't listening to their teasing.
The tray commanded every ounce of his attention. The steam rising from the bowls curled in soft spirals, glowing in the tent's warm light like ghostly ribbons. The smell struck him first—rich, meaty, warm. Real food. Actual food. Not blood. Not rot. Not survival scraps.
His stomach cramped so hard he winced.
He tore his eyes away from the bowls for a second, glanced at the girls arguing, then looked back at the food with a hunger so sharp it almost hurt.
"Nothing happened," he finally muttered, voice flat, eyes locked on the tray.
A string of saliva rolled down his lip before he realized.
"I see," Porpo said with a faint, disappointed smile. "Fuck, that's disappointing. I was hoping for something more. But whatever, not the reason I'm here anyway."
"Porpo!" Jane squeaked, cheeks flushing crimson as she sat on the chair beside Porpo.
Porpo stood, grabbed the tray, and set it carefully onto Jagger's lap. The metal radiated warmth through the thin blanket, flooding his legs with a comforting heat.
"Eat."
He didn't need to be told twice.
His trembling fingers wrapped around the spoon. For a few seconds, he simply stared into the bowl. The stew was thick—brown with floating herbs, chunks of tough meat softened by boiling, thin slicks of oil dancing on the surface. The rice glistened white, almost pearlescent.
He took a spoonful.
And the world narrowed.
The broth coated his tongue with savory richness, warm enough to sting the rawness inside his throat. The meat was stringy but tender, falling apart under his teeth. His jaw trembled. His eyes burned. The moment he swallowed, heat unfurled in his stomach like a long-lost warmth returning after days of cold.
A low groan escaped him—soft, involuntary.
He ate desperately, pulling another spoonful, then another, then shoveling the rice into his mouth with unrestrained hunger. It was messy. It was primal. It was everything he needed.
Jane and Porpo watched silently.
"He looks like a starving animal," Porpo muttered, though her tone had softened.
"He probably is," Jane replied gently.
He finished both bowls—scraping the last grains of rice, drinking the last drops of broth—and leaned back against the cot, chest rising in slow, steady breaths. His body finally sagged into the mattress, as if food alone had soothed something deeper in him.
For the first time since the nightmare began, something small—fragile—like hope settled in his chest.
"So, how're you feeling?" Jane asked softly.
Jagger inhaled. "I was feeling like shit, but now I am feeling slightly less shit."
Porpo cracked her knuckles. "Yeah. No surprise. Lynis gave you a proper fuckin' in the ass."
"You've got a fucking mouth on you for someone so young…" he muttered. Then, glancing at Jane: "And thanks for… you know… the water."
Porpo snorted. "It's my fuckin' mouth. Also—we're the people who saved your sorry ass. Name's Porpo. Nice to meet cha. And if it weren't for Jane—" she thumb-pointed at her friend, "I would've put you in cuffs. After the shit you pulled, do it again and I'll personally shove my foot so far up your ass it'll wave from your mouth."
"Porpo," Jane warned.
"What?" Porpo blinked. "Facts."
Jagger let out a weak laugh, though it sent a ripple of pain through his ribs. "Charming. But I just woke up—I didn't even get a chance to pull some shit."
Porpo leaned forward. "Then explain the bruising around her neck."
His breath froze.
His eyes instinctively snapped to Jane's throat.
Faint blue-purple marks dotted the soft skin. Finger-shaped. His fingers.
A memory—blurred but brutal—surged up: his hands closing around her neck, her eyes wide with terror, someone shouting "GET OFF HER!"
His stomach twisted.
"I… I don't… I'm sorry. I don't remember. I—"
Jane immediately shook her head. "Porpo, enough." Then to Jagger, softer: "You weren't in control. You reacted on instinct. It was self-defense."
She touched her neck briefly, almost shyly. "It was my fault for reaching toward you so suddenly."
It didn't erase the guilt. But it softened the chokehold it had around his lungs.
"I'm still sorry," he whispered.
"It's alright," Jane murmured.
Silence settled, thick but gentler.
Then the tent flap rustled.
A shadow filled the doorway—broad, towering, heavy-shouldered.
Jabri stepped inside, ducking slightly to avoid hitting the top seam. Dusty sunlight caught the scars carved above both eyes, the raw burn along his scalp, the tattoos curling around his biceps. Sweat gleamed on his dark skin. His tank top clung to his chest. His cargo pants were streaked with dirt and dried monster gore.
Despite the rugged appearance, his presence was warm—like an older brother walking into chaos with practiced calm.
"Good, you're awake," he said in a deep American accent, relief slipping into the edges of his voice. "Oh, you two are here too."
Jane immediately stood. "Sir."
Porpo waved lazily. "Yo."
He nodded back, then looked down at Jagger with a gaze that assessed without prying—soft but sharp.
"Name's Jabri," he said, pulling a chair close and dropping into it. "I'm the... head of this little… uh… 'camp.' If you can call it one."
He chuckled. The cot beside Jagger rattled slightly.
Jagger blinked. "Uh… Jagger. Name's Jagger."
A brief silence lingered—awkward, warm, human.
Jane suddenly jumped in. "We should go get you some clothes."
Porpo stared at her sideways. We?
Jagger tugged the blanket higher over his hips, face heating again.
Jabri watched the dynamic forming and smirked. He nudged Porpo with an elbow. "Jane, when you and Doctor Tori were cleaning up our friend here… did you snag a peek?"
Jagger's entire face flushed.
Jane's exploded.
"NO! NO, I—" she shrieked. "I didn't see anything! Not that there wasn't anything to see—wait—NO—I didn't mean it like that—there was a lot to see—OH GOD—"
She slapped both hands over her mouth as if trying to suffocate the words.
Porpo groaned into her palms. "Are you trying to flirt with him? Because you're fucking it up massively."
Jabri burst into full, booming laughter—the deep kind that shook his ribs and made nearby patients peek over and chuckle.
"WHAT?! I—We should leave!" Jane grabbed Porpo by the wrist, flustered panic radiating off her like heat. "Bye! I'll check on you later!"
The two vanished through the tent flap—Jane dragging Porpo, Porpo protesting, both red-faced in their own way.
When they were gone, the tent quieted again. Jabri was still chuckling, wiping his eyes. Jagger lay back, staring helplessly at the ceiling canvas, wishing it would collapse and bury him.
"Oh, how I would love to be young again," Jabri said, setting the chair closer. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, voice gentling as the laughter faded.
"So, kid," he asked, tone steady, apprehensive, real, "I need to know who you are."
The tent hummed softly, with Jabri watching him intently. Not like a leader sizing up a soldier. Like a man trying to understand what kind of storm had washed up on shore.
Jagger's jaw tightened.
Outside, wind rustled through canvas.
Inside, the world held its breath.