The voice in his head went quiet after that last sentence.
"...Bye," Sayes said, almost casually, and then—nothing.
"Hey. Hey! Sayes!" Damir called out, both aloud and in his mind.
Silence. Complete, unnerving silence.
He stood there for a moment, staring at the trees as if they might answer. Then he shook his head once, sharp and irritated.
"Fine. Play hide and seek. I'll manage."
He returned to the Sprinter, circled it once more to confirm nothing had magically changed, then climbed back in. The engine started without complaint. He killed the headlights, eased the throttle, and began threading the heavy van between the massive trunks, moving as slowly as possible to avoid snapping low branches or getting stuck.
After maybe ten minutes of cautious crawling, the forest opened slightly. Ahead rose a low ridge, and at its base—almost hidden by hanging vines and moss—a wide-mouthed cave. Dark, dry, deep enough.
Damir killed the engine, got out, and checked the entrance on foot. The opening was wide enough, the ceiling high enough. He could drive the van straight in and still have room to maneuver.
He did exactly that.
Once inside, he shut off everything. The black van blended perfectly into the shadows. From outside, in the fading daylight, it would be nearly invisible.
He moved to the rear, opened the weapon rack, and began selecting gear with practiced efficiency.
First, a combat knife—his favorite Benchmade fixed-blade, razor-sharp and perfectly balanced. He slid it into the sheath on his belt.
Then a pistol. He chose the **Glock 19**—compact, reliable, suppressor already threaded. Two spare magazines went into his vest.
A handful of loose 9mm rounds into his pocket, just in case.
He considered body armor. Too bulky for first contact. Instead, he found a dark, hooded cloak in one of the storage bins—waterproof, lightweight, nondescript. He draped it over his shoulders, pulled the hood low, and checked the mirror.
Good enough. Not local, but not screaming "outsider with guns" either.
He stepped out of the cave.
Twilight had fallen fast. The forest was already full of night sounds—crickets, distant howls, the rustle of small creatures. He moved silently, following a faint game trail downhill.
Less than twenty minutes later, he spotted lights.
A small settlement nestled in a shallow valley. Wooden houses with thatched roofs, a central well, a few barns. Smoke curled from chimneys. And from one larger building—larger windows, louder noise—came the unmistakable sound of people drinking, laughing, talking.
A tavern. Or whatever the local equivalent was.
Damir approached from the shadows, cloak pulled tight. He watched for a minute. No guards. No obvious weapons beyond a few hunting knives on belts. Simple folk.
He walked to the door and pushed it open.
The room didn't go silent all at once. It faded gradually, like a wave.
First the nearest tables noticed the tall stranger in the dark cloak. Then the ones farther back. Conversations stuttered. Laughter died.
The barkeep—a middle-aged man with neatly combed black hair, a trimmed mustache, white shirt rolled to the elbows—froze mid-wipe of a glass.
Damir didn't hesitate.
He walked straight to the bar, lifted the fat hare he'd snared on the way (still warm), and laid it gently on the counter.
The room watched.
The barkeep stared at the hare, then at the hooded figure. He said something—short, questioning.
Damir didn't understand a word.
Shit.
He pointed at the hare, then at a plate of food on a nearby table (roast meat and vegetables), then at the barkeep's shirt.
Universal language: trade.
The barkeep blinked, then seemed to get it. He pointed at the hare, held up seven fingers. Then pointed at the plate of food, held up seven fingers again.
Seven coins for the hare. Seven coins for a meal.
Reasonable, Damir thought.
He pointed at the barkeep's shirt, raised an eyebrow—how much?
The man held up two sets of ten fingers.
Twenty.
Damir nodded once.
The barkeep gestured toward an empty table near the back wall. Damir moved there and sat, keeping his back to the wall, hood still low.
A minute later, a wooden bowl of thick stew arrived, a hunk of dark bread, and a small plate of grilled vegetables mixed with chunks of meat.
He stared at the food.
Then the System window flickered into view again.
```
[Notification]
You have acquired basic proficiency in Hand Gesture Language (Level 1)
Understanding of hand gestures has slightly improved.
```
Damir almost laughed under his breath.
"So a few hand signs and I get a skill ? I thought, I couldn't be able to understand these people. Now I think there is a qay for that. Good..."
He tore off a piece of bread, dipped it in the stew, and tasted it.
Warm. Savory. A little heavy on herbs he didn't recognize, but edible. Good, even.
He ate slowly, watching the room.
People were starting to talk again—quietly. Stolen glances still came his way, but the initial tension was easing. A stranger with money was apparently more interesting than threatening.
He finished the meal, pushed the empty bowl aside, and leaned back.
For the first time since the crash, he allowed himself one single thought:
Maybe—just maybe—this world might let him disappear after all.
But deep down, he knew better.
Disappearing was never that easy.
Not for the Reaper.