The mountains were quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that felt empty—but the kind that listened.
Wind slipped through the tall grass in long, patient breaths. The trees stood like old watchers, their branches whispering secrets to one another. Somewhere deeper in the forest, a bird called once… then went silent.
Wade liked it that way.
He sat on the edge of a worn wooden fence, swinging one leg lazily while chewing on a dry piece of jerky. His eyes traced the far slope of the mountain where the mist still clung to the ground like something alive.
"Wade."
The voice came from behind him.
Firm. Calm. Familiar.
Wade didn't turn immediately. He already knew who it was.
"You're late," he said, still staring ahead.
Footsteps approached—measured, steady. Not heavy, not light. Controlled.
"You're early," the voice replied.
Now Wade turned.
Damon stood a few steps away, sunlight catching the edges of his dark hair. At fifteen, he already carried himself like someone older—shoulders straight, gaze sharp, movements efficient.
Nothing about him was wasted.
Not even words.
"You said we'd go at sunrise," Wade said, hopping off the fence. "The sun's already up."
Damon glanced briefly at the sky, then back at Wade.
"It's still rising."
"That's not the same thing."
"It is if you're slow."
Wade frowned. "I'm not slow."
Damon didn't reply.
Which was worse than arguing.
Their home sat halfway up the mountain—just a small wooden house built from old timber and reinforced by hand over the years. It leaned slightly to one side, like it had grown tired of standing but refused to fall.
It was quiet.
Always quiet.
No neighbors. No roads. No voices except theirs.
And that was enough.
"Get your gear," Damon said, turning toward the house.
Wade rushed past him. "I already did."
Damon raised an eyebrow as Wade grabbed a short hunting blade from the table inside.
"You cleaned it?"
"…Yeah."
Damon walked over, took the blade, and held it up to the light.
A faint streak of dried blood glinted along the edge.
Wade froze.
"…I missed a spot."
Damon said nothing.
He handed it back.
"Clean tools keep you alive."
"I know."
"Knowing and doing are different."
Wade looked down. "I said I know."
A pause.
Then Damon turned away.
"Let's go."
The forest swallowed them quickly.
Light filtered through the leaves in broken pieces, shifting as the wind moved above. The ground was uneven—roots, stones, soft earth—but Damon walked like he'd memorized every step years ago.
Wade followed, trying to match him.
Trying.
"Your footing's off," Damon said without looking back.
Wade frowned. "It's not."
"You're dragging your right heel."
"…I am not."
Damon stopped.
Turned.
"Walk."
Wade did.
Three steps in, Damon spoke again.
"Again."
Wade walked again, slower this time.
"…Okay, maybe a little."
Damon sighed softly. "If you trip while chasing prey, you don't eat."
"I won't trip."
"You just did yesterday."
"That was different!"
"How?"
"There was mud."
"There's always mud."
Wade opened his mouth—
Then closed it.
"…Fine."
Damon nodded once. "Good."
They moved deeper.
The air changed.
Cooler. Thicker.
Alive.
"Tracks," Wade whispered, crouching low.
Damon stepped beside him.
Two sets of marks pressed into the dirt—fresh.
Small hooves.
"Deer," Wade said.
Damon shook his head. "Too light."
Wade squinted. "…Rabbit?"
"Too wide."
Wade exhaled sharply. "Then what?"
Damon didn't answer immediately.
His eyes scanned the trees.
The shadows.
The silence.
"…Stay close," he said finally.
They followed the trail for nearly twenty minutes.
Careful. Quiet.
Wade's heart began to pick up—not from fear, but from excitement.
This was his favorite part.
The hunt.
Then—
A sound.
Not from ahead.
From the side.
Damon's hand shot out, grabbing Wade's shoulder and pulling him back.
A rock flew past where Wade's head had been.
It hit a tree with a sharp crack.
Wade stumbled. "What the—?!"
Laughter.
Low. Mocking.
Five boys stepped out from behind the trees.
Older.
Bigger.
Not from the mountain.
"Well, look what we found," one of them said, rolling his shoulders. "Mountain rats."
Wade's grip tightened on his blade.
Damon stepped forward.
Calm.
Cold.
"Leave," he said.
The boys laughed.
"You think you can tell us what to do?" another said, cracking his knuckles.
"Or what?" a third added. "You'll fight us?"
Damon didn't answer.
He just stepped closer.
The air shifted.
Wade felt it instantly.
That feeling.
The one that meant—
Something was about to happen.
"Damon…" Wade muttered.
"Stay back," Damon said.
The first boy rushed him.
Fast.
Reckless.
Damon moved.
Not fast.
Not flashy.
Just—
Right.
He sidestepped.
Grabbed the boy's arm.
Twisted.
A sharp crack echoed through the trees.
The boy screamed.
The others froze.
For half a second.
Then they charged.
Wade's chest tightened.
There were too many—
But Damon didn't step back.
He stepped forward.
A punch came from the left—
He blocked.
Elbowed.
Kneed.
Another came from behind—
He turned.
Too fast.
Too precise.
Every movement was clean.
Controlled.
Brutal.
No wasted motion.
No hesitation.
Wade watched—
Frozen.
This wasn't just fighting.
This was something else.
Something trained.
Something… refined.
A boy swung wildly—
Damon ducked—
Then drove his fist straight into the boy's ribs.
A deep, sickening thud.
Another tried to grab him—
Damon pivoted—
Threw him over his shoulder—
Hard.
One by one…
They fell.
Breathing heavy.
Broken.
Done.
Silence returned.
Damon stood still for a moment.
Then exhaled.
Slowly.
"Let's go," he said.
Wade stared.
"…You didn't even get hit."
Damon glanced at him. "I got hit."
"Where?"
Damon wiped a small cut from his lip.
"…Oh."
They walked back in silence.
But Wade couldn't stop thinking.
That wasn't normal.
That wasn't just strength.
Or speed.
It was something deeper.
And for the first time…
Wade realized:
He didn't really know everything about Damon.
Night Fell Quietly
The house creaked as the wind picked up.
Wade sat cross-legged on the floor, picking at his food.
"You're quiet," he said.
Damon didn't respond immediately.
"…Just tired."
"You're never tired."
"Everyone gets tired."
"Not you."
A pause.
"…Eat your food."
Something felt off.
Wade couldn't explain it.
But the air felt heavier.
Like before a storm.
Later that night—
A knock came.
Wade froze.
They never got visitors.
Damon stood.
Slowly.
Carefully.
"Wade," he said.
His voice was different.
Lower.
Sharper.
"Go to your room."
"What—?"
"Now."
Wade hesitated.
"…Who is it?"
Damon didn't answer.
"Wade."
That tone again.
"…Okay."
Wade walked to his room.
Closed the door.
But didn't lock it.
He listened.
Footsteps.
The door opening.
Voices.
Low.
Unreadable.
Then—
Silence.
The door creaked open.
Damon stood there.
But something had changed.
His eyes.
They weren't calm anymore.
They were—
Serious.
"Wade," he said quietly.
"Come here."
Wade stepped closer.
"…What's going on?"
Damon knelt slightly.
Placing a hand on Wade's shoulder.
Firm.
Steady.
"Listen to me."
Wade's chest tightened.
"You're going to hide."
"…What?"
"In the closet."
"…Why?"
A pause.
"…Just do it."
Wade shook his head. "No, tell me what's happening."
Damon's grip tightened.
Not enough to hurt.
But enough to stop him.
"Wade."
Silence.
"…Please."
That word.
Damon never used that word.
Wade's resistance broke.
"…Okay."
He stepped into the closet.
Dark.
Small.
Damon closed the door halfway.
Not fully.
Just enough.
"Don't come out," Damon said.
"…When will you be back?"
A pause.
For a moment—
Damon didn't answer.
Then—
"…Soon."
The door closed.
Darkness.
Wade waited.
Seconds passed.
Then—
Footsteps.
The front door opened.
Closed.
Silence returned.
And this time—
It didn't feel peaceful.
It felt empty.
Wade stayed there.
In the dark.
Waiting.
"…Damon?"
No answer.
And without realizing it—
That was the last time he heard his brother's voice..