This was supposed to be a routine hunt.
Wake at dawn. Check the traps. Track the scent. Pack the meat. Move on.
Simple. Clean. Efficient.
Not this.
Not standing in a clearing next to a naked idiot who had just speared a wild boar like some unhinged backwoods gladiator. He looked half-mad—barefoot, scratched to hell, blood streaked across his chest, and wearing a grin that made her want to both slap and interrogate him.
Nyssa narrowed her eyes.
He just tilted his head and offered a cheerful, "So… does this count as teamwork?"
She didn't respond. She didn't have the words. Her instincts, usually sharp and unshakable, had no idea what to make of this man. He wasn't just strange—he felt wrong. Not in a dangerous way, not yet. But something about him ticked in an unfamiliar rhythm. The kind of off-beat that made you either pay attention or die regretting it.
He shouldn't have been able to kill that boar. Not with a stick. Not from that angle. And definitely not with the kind of aimless, clueless chaos he radiated.
And yet—he had.
"You're really not from around here, are you?" she asked flatly, nudging the boar's flank with her foot.
"What gave it away?" he said, smirking. "The loincloth? Or the expert boar-slaying skills?"
She didn't smile. Not with her mouth, at least. But her lips twitched before she caught herself.
Jack.
That was the name he'd given. Probably fake, but somehow… fitting. He had that kind of casual, empty-named confidence, like he was used to skating through life without consequences.
Except he'd obviously had them. His body told the story—lean, a little underfed, faint scars on his back and arms that didn't match anything the forest could throw at someone. Old wounds, poorly treated.
A man like him had been through something.
Maybe not the right kind of something, but enough to teach him to move fast when things went sideways.
Together, they hoisted the boar between them and hauled it toward her camp. Jack didn't talk much now. Just grunted under the weight, adjusted his grip when she needed it, and didn't complain once.
Nyssa respected that, at least.
The clearing where she'd set up was small and quiet, nestled under a canopy of old trees with a fire pit circled by worn stones. A line of drying herbs hung from a low branch nearby. Practical. Temporary. It was never meant to be permanent.
She watched Jack drop the boar with a heavy exhale, then stretch his arms over his head like he'd just wrapped up a workout at the village training yard.
"So," he said, breathless, "is this the part where I earn a meal? Or do I need to slay another beast with my legendary stick-fu?"
Nyssa tossed him a strip of dried meat. He caught it, raised it in a mock toast, and bit off a chunk.
She sat across the fire from him, silently carving into the boar. It wasn't until she finished bleeding the carcass that she spoke again.
"What's your story?"
Jack blinked. "You mean aside from the naked forest gremlin who just earned a five-star pelt?"
She raised a brow.
He sighed, leaned back on his hands, and stared into the trees for a moment. "Fine. You want the truth?"
"Always."
"I died."
She paused, blade still buried in meat. "…Come again?"
"I died," he repeated, unfazed. "Choked on a meatball."
Nyssa stared at him. Hard.
"Not a euphemism," he added quickly. "Like, actual food. Round. Meaty. Sudden death."
"…You expect me to believe that?"
"I expect nothing," he said, voice lighter than it had any right to be. "Just figured honesty might work better than telling you I'm a forest spirit cursed to wander in shame."
She hated that she didn't immediately write him off as crazy.
Because despite how absurd it all sounded, he didn't look like he was lying. His eyes held something real. Raw. The kind of pain you didn't fake for laughs.
Nyssa dropped the blade into the dirt beside her and leaned forward.
"Let me guess. You 'woke up' here with no memories, no clothes, and a sudden urge to impress the first woman you saw?"
"I mean," he said, raising a hand, "you are remarkably easy to be impressed by."
She glared.
He held his grin for a beat longer—then softened. "No. I remember everything. That's the worst part. I remember the moment I choked. I remember my shitty apartment. I remember dying. And now I'm here."
Nyssa studied him for a long moment. Then she looked back down at the meat she was cutting.
"I don't believe you," she said.
"I wouldn't either."
"But you don't act like you're lying."
"I'm a man of many contradictions."
She hated that a small part of her… believed him. Or at least, believed that he believed it.
Jack shifted on the log, watching the firelight dance across her face. She ignored the weight of his gaze, or tried to. She was good at hiding discomfort. Good at burying emotions under layers of survival instinct.
But he was different.
Not just because he didn't belong.
But because he didn't pretend to.
"Why aren't you more afraid?" she asked, almost to herself.
"Should I be?"
"Most people dropped into the woods naked would be crying, panicking, begging for help. You're sitting half-naked by a fire like this is a camping trip."
He paused, then gave a quiet shrug. "I think… I used up all my fear in the last life."
Nyssa went still.
He didn't elaborate. Didn't try to make it into some grand speech. Just sat there, staring into the flames like they might whisper some answers he hadn't earned yet.
The fire crackled.
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of pine and blood and distant smoke.
She stood, brushing her hands off on her trousers. "Get some rest."
He raised an eyebrow. "Is that an invitation to cuddle?"
She didn't answer. Just grabbed a roll of spare cloth from her pack and tossed it at his face.
"For your dignity."
He caught it. "Too late for that."
She turned away before he could see the corner of her mouth twitch again.
Strange man.
Strange night