His stomach growled again.
Louder this time.
Kade stopped walking, pressing a hand to his gut like it might shut it up by force. It didn't. It just kept gurgling and twisting like it was ready to digest itself.
"Fantastic," he muttered. "Guess I'm skipping lunch. Again."
He looked around the forest, hoping—praying—for something edible. Berries? Mushrooms? A vending machine glitching out of reality? Anything.
Nope.
Just more trees. More moss. More cold.
The temperature had dipped. Subtly, then suddenly. Enough that his breath now came out in faint white wisps. His thin pajamas weren't doing him any favors—especially not with damp fabric clinging to his legs and the wind sliding its fingers down his neck.
"Okay," he whispered to himself, rubbing his arms. "Don't panic. Just need shelter. A rock ledge. A hollow tree. Anything but open ground."
Because the light was leaving.
Faster than it should've.
The sun hadn't set yet, but the trees had grown so dense that its rays barely made it through. What little light remained painted the world in bruised golds and dying greens. The kind of light that warned of approaching night, of things moving in the dark where light failed to reach.
His pulse quickened. The air felt heavier now. Still no animals. No birdsong. Even the wind seemed to have vanished, replaced by a silence so deep it rang in his ears.
Kade turned slowly, scanning the forest behind him.
Nothing.
But the back of his neck itched like something was there.
Watching.
His stomach snarled again, louder this time—sharp enough to echo in his skull.
Kade winced and leaned against a tree, breathing through his nose.
"A human can survive a week without food, right?" he muttered, trying to remember some half-read survival article. "Or was that three days?"
He blinked. Thought about it.
Nope. That was water.
"Right. Three days without water. A week without food." He paused. "Maybe."
His voice felt smaller in the cold.
"And I've got… neither."
His stomach growled again, this time with a vengeance, like it was personally offended.
Kade sighed and looked down at the forest floor. Leaves. Twigs. Dirt.
"Alright," he mumbled, crouching. "Let's see what fine dining looks like out here."
He picked up a big leaf. Green, slightly wilted. Definitely not salad-grade.
"...Deer eat this stuff, right?"
He hesitated. Then gave it a cautious sniff. It smelled like...leaf. Just leaf.
With all the dignity of a man who had long since run out of it, he stuffed a corner of it in his mouth and started chewing.
It was like gnawing on paper someone had soaked in pond water and regret.
He spat it out immediately.
"Okay. Nope. Screw evolution. How do animals live like this?"
He rubbed his tongue with his sleeve, trying to erase the flavor of nature itself. "This game better not have a hunger meter. I will rage quit."
He rubbed his tongue with his sleeve, trying to erase the flavor of nature itself. "This game better not have a hunger meter. I will rage quit."
Then he froze.
Something shifted.
Just at the edge of his vision—barely a flicker—something white moved between the trees.
Kade slowly straightened, heart skipping. He didn't turn his head. Just kept staring straight ahead, pretending he hadn't seen it.
But he had.
Small.
White.
Low to the ground.
And long ears.
It was too quick to be a rabbit.
It glided.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Kade blinked, staring intently at the trees around him. The moment he focused on where it had been, it was gone—vanished into the shadows.
"Right," he muttered to himself, forcing a laugh, "just a rabbit. Totally normal."
Still, his pulse had picked up. Maybe it had been his imagination.
He took another step forward, eyes flicking toward the movement.
Then—there it was again.
White. Low. Darting between the trees.
It wasn't like any rabbit Kade had ever seen. This one was wrong. It moved too quickly. Too... fluid.
A chill crawled down his spine, but he pushed it away. "It's fine. No big deal," he whispered under his breath.
But even as he spoke, his feet shifted uneasily on the forest floor. He had to move. Get out of here. The sun was starting to dip, the shadows were lengthening, and the air felt heavier, colder.
Kade tried to shake off the nagging feeling in his gut that the thing, whatever it was, was watching.
At first, it was just the one.
Then another.
And another.
Each time he glanced toward the trees, a flicker of white darted out of sight—always at the edge of his vision. Always gone before he could focus.
They were small. Rabbit-shaped. But wrong. Their movements were too silent. Too synchronized. Too… deliberate.
Kade slowed his steps.
Then stopped altogether.
His eyes scanned the treeline, sweat cold on his neck. He didn't even notice the hunger anymore.
There were more now.
Half-hidden behind roots. Perched on rocks. Still as statues. Staring.
Dozens of them.
White. Motionless. Long ears turned like antennas.
And their eyes—
They glowed.
Dim. Milky. Lifeless.
The same shade as bone.
Kade's breathing hitched.
That feeling—that feeling—it came crawling back. The one from sleepovers when he was a kid and couldn't find a corner to put his back to. That primal fear of being exposed. Watched. Vulnerable.
Except now he was standing in a sea of tall grass, surrounded by motionless watchers.
His back had no wall.
And the sun was almost gone.
He took a shaky step backward.
The rabbits didn't move.
He took another.
Still motionless.
But something in him screamed to run.
Because they weren't blinking.
Because real animals don't wait.
Because the moment it got just a little darker
They might stop waiting.
As the last streaks of sunlight bled from the sky, the forest changed.
The silence cracked.
And something screamed.
High-pitched. Splintering. Like metal tearing through bone.
Kade didn't wait.
He sprinted.
Grass whipped at his legs. Branches clawed at his arms. He didn't care. The sound behind him kept growing—more shrieks, more rustling, like dozens of tiny bodies bursting from their stillness all at once.
He didn't look back.
He couldn't.
But he heard them.
Skittering.
Clawing.
Scraping.
The forest was alive now—and it hated him.
Every instinct in Kade's body screamed to move faster, to run like hell. The air behind him felt colder. The trees looked wrong, like their bark had turned to faces, watching him flee.
He jumped over a root, stumbled on a rock, nearly lost his footing—but didn't stop.
Not until the screeches twisted into something worse.
Laughter.
Small.
Distorted.
Childlike.
He didn't know rabbits could laugh.
He didn't want to know.
He just kept running.
Kade's lungs burned. His legs ached. But he didn't stop.
He couldn't.
The screeches had turned guttural—wet sounds mixed in now. Snapping. Slurping.
Something behind him was eating.
He dared a glance back.
Just a flicker.
Enough to see movement in the darkness—pale shapes hunched over something… someone?
No.
Not someone.
His body.
The realization hit him like a hammer. His head—clawed apart from his neck—rolled behind him with each frantic step.
His body kept running, but the headless form jerked and spasmed, unaware it was falling apart.
It wasn't long before his legs gave out, and his body crumpled to the ground.
Kade's vision blurred as the pale-eyed rabbits swarmed over his fallen form, gnawing and tearing at the remains.