Darkness wrapped around John like a burial cloth.
He was back—once again—in the heart of the forest, but this time it felt different. The shadows were heavier, the air thicker. Not merely absence of light, but a presence. A silence that didn't simply mute sound—it watched.
The moon, high above, fought valiantly to pierce the forest canopy. Its silver rays splintered against the branches, only faint wisps of light curling down to the forest floor like ghostly fingers. Trees loomed around him—giants, ancient and unmoving, their gnarled trunks wider than cars, their roots like petrified serpents crawling across the earth.
John had never seen anything like them. There was no breeze here, no rustle of leaves—just stillness. Oppressive and absolute.
And in that lifeless quiet, John crouched low beneath a tangled overhang of roots, tucked away in a natural hollow. A momentary shelter from the forest's primal gaze.
He pressed his hands together.
"Oh God," he whispered, voice raw with exhaustion and dread, "please… just let morning come. Let me leave this place."
His prayer, soft as it was, seemed to ripple across the underbrush. The silence deepened, thickened. The woods did not respond kindly.
Instead, something brushed his hand.
Solid. Segmented. Familiar.
John's eyes snapped down. It was back—the fatty insect. The same strange creature that had saved Luna. The one that had burrowed through a lion's body as though it were paper.
He froze. Its weight was real, its presence undeniable. For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then John exhaled shakily, voice almost too soft to hear. "Oh… You came out?"
And then—a voice.
Not from around him, but inside.
A dry, irritated tone echoed through his mind like thought sharpened into speech. "So, what do you think? I spend the whole day listening to your whining?"
John's heart leapt to his throat. He jolted backward, eyes wide with alarm. "Wait—what? Did you just... talk to me?"
The fatty insect's squat head twitched "Talk to you? No. I'm speaking in my language. But how are you understanding me?"
John's mind reeled, his breath catching. "How would I know?! You're speaking—whatever this is—and I get it. And you understand me. That means... somehow... we're translating each other's thoughts?"
There was a pause.
"Hmm," the insect mused. "That shouldn't be possible."
John, already on the edge, sat down heavily onto the soft moss. "Yeah, well... welcome to my life."
The mental voice grew sharper now, more serious. "Listen carefully. You're in a very, very wrong place. If my kind comes up here, my herd… you're finished. And I won't be able to save you. Not again."
Fear returned like a crashing tide. John gripped his knees, curling inward. "Then... what do I do?" His voice cracked. "You've seen what I am. I'm weak. I can't even fight without you. I'm—"
"Enough," the voice interrupted, firm and calm now, like a guide used to panicked creatures. "If you want to live, listen to me."
John nodded quickly.
"My species lives mostly underground. We sense movement, especially in areas like this—tight, dense forest with soft, wet earth. Vibrations are everything. If you keep walking or running around like an idiot, you'll alert the hive. My hive. And believe me, if they surface, they won't care that I like you."
John's blood ran cold. "Okay. Okay, I get it," he whispered, still staring at the creature, awestruck and terrified. "I won't move. I'll just... stay here."
"Good," said the voice, with a thread of satisfaction. "Don't speak loudly. Don't shift unless you must. And don't pray out loud again unless you want your God to meet you personally."
John gave a weak chuckle, breathless. "Noted."
He settled deeper into the alcove of roots, trying to calm his racing thoughts.
The forest remained silent—but now, he realized, it wasn't empty. Beneath the stillness was motion. Listening. Waiting.
And the only reason he wasn't dead... was because a monster had taken pity on him.
Or worse—liked him.