Time seemed to blur after that. The haze of painkiller wore off slowly, leaving Caden with a dull ache in his leg that settled like a constant reminder of what had happened. He spent hours in and out of sleep, drifting through a fog of discomfort and exhaustion, his body adjusting, healing at its own pace. It wasn’t fast enough.

It had been a struggle, but eventually, the fog began to lift, and his mind started working again, even if his body hadn’t fully caught up. He was determined. He was tired of being confined to the bed, of being trapped in the sterile white walls of the hospital room. He couldn’t stand the helplessness any longer.

The nurses had warned him against trying to move too much, but Caden ignored them. His pride, his need to feel some sense of control, pushed him forward. Slowly, carefully, he sat up, the weight of his body feeling heavier than it should, as if his legs were made of stone. His left leg, still swollen and tender, throbbed with each movement, but he gritted his teeth against the pain, focusing on nothing but the action of swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

His fingers curled around the edge of the mattress, and with a deep breath, he forced himself to stand. His body protested, muscles weak from the prolonged immobility, and he nearly stumbled. The world swayed for a moment, dizziness clouding his vision, but he steadied himself, holding onto the IV pole for support.

He limped forward, his steps slow and awkward, his right leg moving with a familiar fluidity, but his left... it dragged. Every step was a struggle, every inch a battle against the ache and instability that shot through him. He could feel the weight of it, the pain that lingered even in the stillness, and with each step, the reality of it set in deeper. His leg wasn’t going to heal like it had never happened. It wasn’t a temporary thing. This was permanent.

Caden reached the window after what felt like miles, though it had only been a few steps. He didn’t care about the view outside—the city skyline blurred by the glass—but he needed to focus on something. Anything. His gaze fell on the world beyond, his reflection half-mirrored in the window. He could see the way he stood, the way his left leg gave with a subtle limp as he balanced himself against the frame.

The thought hit him like a wave: This is it. His leg was never going to be the same. The doctors had said it would take time to heal, that therapy might help, but the damage was done. The limp would be with him for the rest of his life.

Caden stared at his reflection, the faint tremor in his hand as he rested it against the cool window, his eyes tracing the way his body shifted, the unevenness of his steps. His heart sank as the truth of it settled in—a quiet weight pressing against his chest, a new reality to grapple with.

He wasn’t sure what was worse—the pain he could feel now or the quiet, aching realization that no matter how much time passed, his body would never be the same. He wasn’t going to be the same.

The thought lingered, and for a moment, he let himself fall into it. His mind wandered, lost in the quiet despair of what had happened, his future now shaped by something he couldn’t change. There was no going back.

But as his fingers tightened against the glass, a quiet determination seeped in, slow and steady. He wasn’t going to let this define him. Not entirely. The limp, the scar, the reminders—they were part of him now, but they didn’t have to be all of him.

For the first time, he took a deep breath, standing tall despite the ache in his leg. There was still a long road ahead, and he was going to walk it—one step at a time.

Rosa watched Caden stumble into the cabin, his movements slow and heavy, as though each step was a battle he was barely winning. Her chest tightened at the sight of him—he looked so defeated, like a shadow of the person he used to be. She wanted to say something, to reach out, but the words caught in her throat. What was there left to say?

She couldn’t help but follow his gaze as he passed the mirror, the way he seemed to freeze, as though seeing himself for the first time in what felt like ages. Rosa felt a pang of guilt twist in her gut. She knew the bruises weren’t just from the outside, but from everything he’d been through—everything they had both been through. But she couldn’t force him to confront it, couldn’t make him talk if he wasn’t ready.

He stood there, his eyes locked on the reflection, and for a brief moment, Rosa saw a flicker of something in his expression. Maybe it was the recognition of his own suffering, maybe just the weight of it all settling in. She didn’t know. She couldn’t. She wanted to reach for him, to pull him out of that moment before it swallowed him whole, but she didn’t know how to.

He turned away without a word, and Rosa let out the breath she didn’t even realize she was holding. She couldn’t help but follow him, her feet carrying her silently behind him as he shuffled deeper into the cabin. Her eyes traced the bruises on his back, the way his shoulders sagged, the effort it took him just to put one foot in front of the other.

How did it get this bad?

The silence between them was suffocating, and yet it felt like the only thing left that was real. Everything else—every word, every touch, every moment before this—felt like it had happened to someone else.

She wanted to speak, but the words got tangled in her chest, so instead, she just watched him disappear further into the cabin, the space between them growing wider with every step he took.

Caden’s body ached as he sat slumped against the wall of the cabin, his legs sprawled out in front of him, still too heavy to move. The pain from the cougar's claws and teeth had been dulled by the hospital’s painkillers, but now, hours later, that relief was fading, replaced by the slow, creeping return of agony. His chest felt tight, every breath a reminder of how much his body had been torn apart.

The quiet of the cabin felt suffocating. He hadn’t even bothered to close the door, or move any farther than this spot on the floor. The world felt so distant, as though it were out of reach, a place where nothing could touch him.

But the pain? That was here. It never left. It made sure of that.

His hands shook as he reached for the bottle of pills on the table across the room. He could barely summon the energy to stand, but somehow, he made it. His legs felt like dead weight, but he managed to stagger toward the cabinet. His vision was blurred at the edges, and it took a long moment to focus on the familiar, worn bottle.

The label was barely legible, but he knew what was inside. He had learned it well over the last few days—codeine. A few more pills, just enough to take the edge off. Enough to make the world feel like it was fading away again.

Caden twisted open the cap, and with unsteady hands, he dumped three pills into his palm. His fingers were so cold, and his stomach churned, but he didn’t hesitate. He tossed them into his mouth and swallowed, dry, feeling the bitterness slide down his throat.

The moment he sank back to the floor, he could already feel it taking effect—the familiar warmth, the fuzzy numbness that spread through his limbs. It didn’t erase the pain entirely, but it made it softer, more distant, more bearable.

His back rested against the cool wood of the wall, and for a moment, the world outside the cabin didn’t matter. He closed his eyes and let the drugs drag him down, his breath evening out as sleep tugged at him, offering him temporary escape.

But even as his eyelids grew heavier, the memories—the claws, the teeth, the terror—still lingered, somewhere deep inside him. He tried to push them away, but they were already there, waiting for him to wake.

And soon, he would. But not yet.