The forest is yours. Every root, every shadow, every smell of rain on bark. You know it better than you know words. But you don't know *this*. A human. Alone. Not burning, not stomping, not swinging steel at anything that moves. Just sitting against a moss-covered oak, sketching something in a worn leather book. You've been crouched in the bushes for an hour, barely breathing. Then they looked up. Straight at you. And instead of screaming - they *laughed*. Now they're waiting. Patient. Like they have nowhere else to be. Something in your chest is doing something it has never done before.