---Jason---

  # The Midnight Visitor

  I roll over in bed for what feels like the hundredth time, the sheets now twisted into a knot around my legs. My new sight shows me every detail of my darkened bedroom—the texture of the ceiling, the precise angles of furniture, the way moonlight creates silver outlines around the blinds. It's incredible yet exhausting, this flood of visual information I have no practice processing.

  "This is ridiculous," I mutter, punching my pillow into a more comfortable shape. Sleep remains stubbornly distant, my mind racing with today's impossible events.

  I glance at the digital clock on my nightstand: 2:37 AM. Perfect. I have to be at Northern Edge Survival School by nine, and this not-sleeping thing is really not helping. I've been an instructor there for two years now, teaching adaptive survival techniques to people with disabilities. The irony of a formerly blind man teaching others how to survive in the wilderness isn't lost on me, but it's work I genuinely love. Or at least I did, before a woman with a bone knife decided to fix my "broken eyes" and upend my entire existence.

  Finding a woman nearly frozen on my porch. Bringing her inside because basic human decency demanded it. Then discovering she's from... somewhere else entirely. Somewhere with bone knives and life-force magic and death oaths. And now I can see—really see—though not in any conventional way.

  I stare at my hands in the darkness, studying the fine details of my fingerprints, visible to me despite the lack of light. How does a person even begin to process all this? I've spent twenty-eight years navigating the world through sound, touch, and memory. Now everything is... different. Too much. Not enough. Overwhelming and yet somehow perfectly natural all at once.

  The doorbell rings—a hesitant, almost tentative sound that makes me jolt upright. Something about that single chime carries uncertainty, as if the finger that pressed it wasn't sure it should.

  "Of course," I grunt, throwing back the covers and swinging my legs over the side of the bed. My feet touch the cool hardwood, and I reach for my robe hanging on the back of the door. The soft heavy material settles over my shoulders as I stand, cinching it at the waist.

  I grab my survival knife from atop the cabinet—the heavy, fixed-blade and more importantly full-tang KA-BAR I've owned for years, used infrequintly, and never actually seen until today. My fingers close around the leather-wrapped handle with familiar ease. Better safe than sorry, even if it's probably just Grace. Probably.

  Dawson's nails scrabble against the floor as he races down the hallway, his excited barking echoing through the house. Not particularly helpful—Dawson thinks everyone who rings the doorbell has come specifically to pet him and admire his inherent doggy greatness.

  I shuffle toward the front door, my new sight mapping every detail—the slight unevenness in the hallway floorboards, the precise angle of the thermostat on the wall, the way my robe billows slightly with each step. The novelty of seeing hasn't worn off, but exhaustion makes it more overwhelming than wondrous right now.

  The doorbell rings again—still uncertain, still hesitant.

  "What?" I growl, yanking the door open with more force than necessary, knife held low by my side. The cold February air rushes in, carrying the scent of snow and city pollution.

  Grace stands on my doorstep, and something about her posture instantly sets off warning bells in my mind. Her shoulders are drawn inward by precisely 1.7 centimeters more than before. Her breathing pattern has shifted—slightly faster, slightly shallower. Her left hand rests on her blade pommel, but her fingers twitch almost imperceptibly, as if seeking reassurance rather than preparing for combat.

  Wait. How do I know any of that? I've had sight for less than a day. I shouldn't be able to notice such minute details or make these kinds of assessments. Yet somehow, I do—reading her body language as clearly as if it were written in bold text floating in the air like a fucking screen or something.

  The woman who earlier seemed like pure contained lethality now looks... rattled. Not afraid—I suspect fear was carved out of her long ago by whatever training shaped her—but genuinely unsettled in a way that feels significant. Her eyes dart past me into the house, seeking familiar territory in a way that reminds me of Dawson when thunderstorms roll through.

  "Are you... okay?" I ask, my voice softening despite my frustration at being awake. Something about her current state reaches past my irritation and touches something more fundamental—a basic human instinct to offer shelter to someone clearly out of their element maybee, or. I don't know.

  Grace's eyes fix on the sheathed knife in my hand. In one fluid motion, she plucks it from my grasp with a speed I can barely track. I blink, and suddenly my knife is in her possession, her eyes narrowing as she examines it critically.

  "Why," she asks with genuine curiosity, "are you walking around with a sheathed knife in your hand instead of on your belt where it belongs?"

  Dawson pushes past my legs, his tail wagging furiously as he greets Grace by leaning against her legs and nudging her hand with his knows for pets, while being completely oblivious to her discomfort or the fact that she's just disarmed me. Or maybe, with his simpler understanding, perfectly aware of exactly what she needs.

  "I—I heard the doorbell," I stammer, suddenly feeling foolish. "Thought it might not be you."

  Grace nods as if this makes perfect sense, then steps past me into the house without waiting for an invitation. "A reasonable precaution," she acknowledges, the door closing behind her. "Though your grip was incorrect."

  She draws the blade from its sheath with practiced ease, inspecting the edge with a critical eye. A tightness forms around her eyes, ever so slightly. "This has not been properly maintained."

  Before I can defend my knife maintenance habits, she locates the whetstone in the small compartment built into the sheath. With methodical precision, she begins sharpening the blade, the stone making a rhythmic scraping sound that's almost hypnotic in its regularity. Her movements are economical, practiced—the motions of someone who has performed this exact task thousands of times.

  "Yeah, come in," I say belatidly while reaching out and gently guiding her farther inside with a light touch on her upper arm. "Not your fault. I couldn't sleep anyway, and I'm not going to fucking leave you outside overnight."

  "Jason?" Grace says, her entire body tensing as her hand pauses mid-stroke on the blade. "Let go of me, please."

  "Right," I grunt, instantly releasing her. My hand pulls back as if burned. "Sorry."

  I forgot about Grace telling me she gutted the last person who grabbed her. And I kind of did grab her while guiding her inside, didn't I? Great job, Stone. Perfect survival instincts there.

  "You did not know," she acknowledges, her posture remaining rigid as she resumes sharpening my knife. "Now you do, though. Do not do it again, as I gutted the last woman who did what you just did. You do not deserve to have your intestines all over the floor, as you are not attempting to remove my legs before cooking and eating them like well-cooked bird wings."

  I blink rapidly, pushing that vivid mental image aside. The casual way she mentions violence continues to be jarring, especially paired with her matter-of-fact delivery. Then again, well. She's Grace.

  Grace completes her work on my knife with a few more expert strokes. She tests the edge with her thumb, nodding in satisfaction before returning both knife and whetstone to the sheath before extending it toward me, hilt first.

  "There," she says. "Properly maintained."

  "Thanks," I mutter, accepting the knife and immediately setting it down on the entryway table. "Want to talk?" I ask, deliberately changing the subject. "You look rattled." Also so I don't have to contemplate my intestines decorating the floor or the fact that someone apparently tried to cook and eat her legs, but mostly because Grace looks genuinely unsettled in a way that seems important.

  Grace's eyes track to the knife I've just set down. "You should either put your knife away properly or wear it on your belt," she states. "Leaving weapons in accessible locations is tactically unsound."

  "I know how to use a knife," I protest, immediately regretting the words as they leave my mouth.

  Grace raises a single eyebrow. "Show me."

  I pick up the knife, drawing it from the sheath with my normal level of confidence. Well, not quite normal since the woman who just casually disarmed me because I didn't have my knife on my belt, is now watching me. I hold it in what I've always thought was a standard grip—blade pointed forward, thumb along the spine, fingers wrapped firmly around the handle.

  Grace studies my position for approximately three seconds before gently prying the knife from my grasp. "No," she says simply. She holds the knife with a subtle but significant difference—her thumb isn't pressed against the spine but rather wrapped more naturally around the grip. Her index finger extends slightly toward the guard but doesn't touch it. Her wrist is relaxed rather than rigid, and the angle of the blade seems to flow as a natural extension of her arm rather than a tool attached to it.

  "This is correct," she explains, demonstrating a slow cutting motion. "Your grip was rigid, inflexible. It relied on strength rather than control. It would fail you if you needed to change angles quickly or respond to resistance." She offers the knife back to me. "Try again."

  I mimic her grip, feeling immediately how much more natural it is. The knife feels less like something I'm clutching and more like something that belongs in my hand.

  "Better," Grace nods, though her expression suggests I've merely graduated from "completely wrong" to "slightly less wrong." She takes the knife once more, returning it to its sheath before handing it back to me. "Now, place it on your belt where it belongs, or store it properly."

  I hesitate, then decide to tuck the sheathed knife into my robe's belt. Grace nods once, apparently satisfied with this compromise.

  "Yes," she says, following me into the living room. We both sit on the couch, leaving a respectful distance between us. Dawson immediately jumps up and flops across Grace's lap, completely disregarding any personal space concerns. She begins petting him, and I can see her muscles visibly relaxing as she scratches between his ears. Dawson leans his head against her stomach, giving her better access, his eyes half-closing in contentment.

  "Wait," I say, suddenly remembering something. "I grabbed you earlier too. When you were choking on the ice cube."

  Grace's hand pauses briefly in Dawson's fur before resuming its rhythmic scratching. "That was different. You were attempting to help me. Though I did not like it, I will not retaliate against actions taken to preserve my life."

  "I didn't know," I say, feeling a strange mixture of relief and concern. "About the touching thing, I mean."

  "I am telling you now," Grace says. "I do not enjoy being touched unless I initiate the contact. It was necessary to make this clear."

  I nod, watching how Dawson nuzzles against her hand when she slows her petting. "Got it. No touching."

  Internally, I find it hard to relate. I've always been tactile—touch has been my primary way of understanding the world for my entire life. The concept of not wanting a warm hug when you're feeling down is foreign to me. But I don't have to understand it, I just have to respect it. Not touching Grace is something I can manage perfectly well.

  "So," I say, leaning back against the armrest to give her even more space, "what's got you looking like you've seen a ghost? Or whatever the equivalent is where you come from."

  Grace continues petting Dawson, her fingers working methodically through his fur. The rhythm seems to calm her as much as it pleases him.

  "When I first arrived here," Grace begins slowly, "I believed this dwelling was impressive. Two floors above ground and made of stone is rare above the tree line. Under it, wood is used, as quarrying stone is both expensive and requires rare skills."

  "I mean," I duck my head, oddly embarrassed by her assessment of my family home, "Dad worked hard on it. It's pretty nice for this neighborhood. Most of the other houses are some varient of cookiecutter.

  "Not compared to those monoliths of stone and metal I saw on the skyline," Grace continues, scratching Dawson more vigorously as she shivers slightly. "Buildings that scrape the sky, with people living so high above the ground that I had to bend my neck almost to breaking to see them. Yet they looked like insects within a hive of cold, unfeeling falsehoods, as if they had been cybernized, their flesh removed and replaced with cold, unfeeling metal."

  Her description paints Toronto's downtown skyline in a way I've never considered before. There's something haunting about her perspective. Also so I don't have to focus on the second part. I don't need any more nightmares, thankyou very much, and especially none of being sybridized. Fuck that.

  "I was almost hit by a truck as well," she adds casually, like she's mentioning the weather.

  "You were what?" I jolt forward, hands automatically reaching toward her arms to check for injuries. I'm halfway to touching her when I remember her warning from moments ago.

  I freeze, then pull back so quickly I nearly fall back and crack my head off the wall behind the couch. My face heats up a second later, a flush spreading across my cheeks that I can actually feel. "I—I'm sorry. I just—you said—truck, and I thought—"

  I stumble over my words, mortified by my instinctive reaction. Without thinking, I retreat all the way across the room to the armchair, putting maximum distance between us.

  "I'll just... stay over here," I mutter, settling awkwardly into the chair.

  Grace watches me with what I can only interpret as slight amusement, though it's hard to tell with her. The corner of her mouth twitches almost imperceptibly, and something in her eyes shifts. On anyone else, I'd call it humor.

  "You're not hurt though, right?" I ask, trying to recover some dignity. "From the truck?"

  Grace shakes her head, her fingers never pausing in their methodical path through Dawson's fur. "No. I sensed it approaching and moved out of its path 0.8 seconds before it would have struck me. The driver was looking at a glowing rectangle in his hand rather than the path ahead of him."

  My hands grip the armrests of my chair as I imagine the scene. "A phone. He was texting while driving." The thought of Grace being hit sends an unexpected spike of anger through me. "That's illegal, you know. Also incredibly dangerous, as you just found out."

  "I was not in danger," Grace states flatly. "My vigger would have fortified my body enough to survive the impact, though it would have been painful and inconvenient." She tilts her head slightly. "The vehicle, however, would have been damaged. The driver likely would have died from the sudden deceleration when I punched through the front of his transport."

  I blink, trying to process her casual assertion that she could survive being hit by several tons of speeding metal. "Wait, you think you would have survived being hit by a truck? Like, a full-sized truck?"

  "Yes," Grace confirms without hesitation. "Though I would not have enjoyed the experience, and it would have drained my vigger significantly." She pauses, considering. "The noise and attention afterward would have been... problematic. It is better that I avoided the collision."

  "Yeah, 'problematic' is one way to put it," I say, running a hand through my hair. "People getting hit by vehicles usually end up in hospitals. Or morgues."

  "Not where I am from," Grace says. "Though few survive being struck by a charging Clatcher or Itharian Battle Mammoth, so the principle is similar."

  I decide not to ask what a "Clatcher" is. Some questions are better left unanswered at 3 AM, and I've got enough problems not thinking about all my flesh stripped away and replaced by fucking metal. Also, boxes. Probably going to have nightmares about boxes too, now.

  "The truck is not what disturbed me," Grace continues, returning to the original topic. "It was the... buildings. The people. So many people, all ignoring each other, all trapped in glass and metal boxes stacked upon each other." She shivers again, though the room is warm. "They did not look like predators or prey. They looked like... nothing. As if they were not truly alive."

  I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "You went downtown, didn't you? Yeah, city life can feel pretty alienating, especially at night. People just trying to get from point A to point B without making eye contact."

  "Is that normal here?" Grace asks, genuine curiosity in her voice. "For humans to live that way?"

  The question hits me harder than I expected. Is it normal? I've never really thought about it that way.

  "I guess it is," I admit. "Most people in cities live in apartments—those stacked boxes you saw. They go to work in office buildings—more boxes. They commute in cars or trains—different kinds of boxes." I shrug. "When you put it that way, we do spend a lot of time in boxes, don't we?"

  Grace's eyes meet mine, and for once, I see something like real emotion in them—a troubled understanding that makes her seem more human than at any point since she arrived.

  "Where I am from," she says quietly, "to be separated from the pack is death. To be alone is to be vulnerable. Yet here, people choose isolation while surrounded by others. It is... unsettling."

  I nod slowly, seeing my own world through her eyes for the first time. "I've never thought about it like that. Maybe that's why people have pets." I gesture toward Dawson, who has now fully sprawled across her lap, paws waveing and tummy exposed in doggy bliss. "They remind us we're not meant to be alone."

  Grace looks down at Dawson, then back at me. "Perhaps," she says, "that is why I came back."

  A massive yawn escapes me before I can stifle it, my jaw cracking with the force of it. I blink away the tears that form at the corners of my eyes, trying to look more alert than I feel.

  "Am I keeping you awake?" Grace asks, her head tilting slightly to the left. "You seem fatigued."

  "No, no, it's fine," I say while unsuccessfully fighting off another yawn. "I just—" I pause, a thought suddenly striking me. "Wait, did you grab a coat before you left earlier?"

  Grace's brow furrows slightly. "A coat?"

  I gesture vaguely toward the front door. "Yeah, you know, something warm. For outside. It's February in Toronto—it's like minus twenty out there."

  Her confusion deepens. "Why would I need additional covering? My cloak provides adequate protection."

  I run a hand over my face, groaning softly. "That's probably part of why I couldn't sleep. My brain kept screaming at me about the woman I let wander out into a February night without a fucking proper winter coat."

  Grace studies me for a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly in concentration. Then, in a movement that seems both calculated and somewhat mechanical, she stands, displacing an unhappy Dawson, and crosses to my chair. With careful precision, she places her hand awkwardly on my shoulder.

  "I am initiating contact," she announces, as if filing a formal report. "As you seem to instinctively reach out to touch, I hope this will adequately convey my message." Her hand rests on my shoulder, fingers stiff, the weight neither comforting nor uncomfortable, just... present. "If I had wished for a coat, I would have asked for one. As I did not, you should not feel guilt about not providing one."

  The gesture is so clearly outside her comfort zone that I find myself touched by the effort more than the action itself. Her hand remains perfectly still, not patting or squeezing, just maintaining contact like she's following instructions from a manual titled "Human Comfort: Basic Applications."

  "Thanks," I say, genuinely appreciating the attempt. "I get it. You're tougher than our weather."

  She removes her hand with what looks like relief before returning to her spot on the couch. Dawson immediately reclaims his position across her lap with what I sware is an annoyed huff and an eye-role my way.

  "I'm going to be useless at work tomorrow," I grumble, glancing at the clock on the wall. "It's already past two-thirty, and I need to be at Northern Edge by nine. Probably going to survive on sugar and caffeine again like last summer."

  Grace's hand moves to a small pouch at her belt. She extracts a tiny glass vial containing a liquid that seems to shimmer slightly even in the dim light of the living room.

  "Do you trust me?" she asks abruptly.

  I regard the mysterious vial with healthy skepticism, then shrug. After letting her magically fix my lifelong blindness, drinking some strange liquid seems like a relatively minor leap of faith considering.

  "I guess I do," I say with a shrug. "What is that?"

  "This is used when clan members experience extreme pain," Grace explains, holding the vial up to the light. "When we must remove infected limbs, or when someone is being consumed from within by parasites. It induces immediate, deep sleep."

  My eyebrows shoot up. "That sounds... intense."

  "It is effective," she states simply, offering me the vial. "This will allow you to sleep."

  I take the small container, examining the swirling liquid inside. With a mental "what the hell," I pop the cork and down the contents in one swift motion. The taste is surprisingly pleasant—like honey and herbs with a hint of something earthy I can't identify.

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  Grace's expression shifts slightly, her eyes widening a fraction. "You should have waited until you were in bed," she notes.

  "Oh," I say, suddenly feeling a heavy warmth spreading through my limbs. "That probably would have been smarter."

  I stand, already feeling the edges of consciousness beginning to blur. "Right. Bed. Good idea."

  The journey to my bedroom feels increasingly dreamlike with each step. I'm vaguely aware of Dawson padding along behind me, and possibly Grace following at a distance, though I can't be certain.

  I manage to reach my bed, collapsing onto it without even pulling back the covers. With the last of my coordination, I place my knife on the bedside table where it belongs right now.

  "Thanks," I mumble, my words already slurring. "For the... sleepy thing."

  As consciousness slips away, I find myself drifting into dreams of being surrounded by angry rangers, their arrows pointed at my heart while Grace patiently corrects my knife technique, her voice calm and clinical as she explains the proper angle for a fatal strike. Somehow, Dawson is there too, utterly unconcerned by the danger, leaning happily against Grace's leg as she pets him with one hand and demonstrates blade work with the other

  My last coherent thought before sleep claims me completely is that my life has become very, very strange indeed.

  ---Grace---

  I wait fifteen minutes after Jason leaves the room, counting each second with perfect precision. When I'm certain the sleeping draught has taken effect, I stand smoothly, dislodging Dawson from his position across my legs. He grumbles softly before settling back into the warm spot I've left behind.

  The floorboards whisper secrets under my feet as I cross to Jason's room. I open the door without sound—a skill learned from countless hunts where the creak of leather or brush of fur against wood would mean empty stomachs for the clan. Jason lies on his back, one arm flung above his head, mouth open and what appears to be druel dripping from one side, breathing the deep, even rhythm of drugged sleep. The sleeping draught works exactly as intended.

  I stand in the threshold, studying him. Something about this sleeping man perplexes me in ways I cannot articulate even to myself. Why did I return here? The logical answer presents itself immediately: shelter, safety, warmth. Yet those factors alone do not explain the subtle pull I felt as I stood beneath those towering glass monoliths, that impulse to return specifically to this dwelling rather than find another.

  Dawson pads softly into the room behind me, his claws clicking gently against the hardwood. He looks up at me with curious eyes, then jumps up onto Jason's bed, circles three times, and lies down. Jason's arm moves to lie across the dog's back without waking, and Dawson huffs in contentment before looking at me as if my presence in this room at this hour is perfectly natural.

  Perhaps it is the dog's acceptance that draws me. No packmaster has stayed long with our clan—their services required only for specific hunts or during the worst winter months. Those rare times when they visited, I found more common ground with their canine companions than with the men themselves. The animals recognized something in me that humans could not see or perhaps simply chose to ignore.

  I catalog Jason's features with clinical detachment. Average height, lean build with minimal muscle definition. Sandy blond hair that falls just above his ears. Face relaxed in sleep reveals more symmetry than I initially noted. His body holds no combat scars that I can observe, his skin unmarked by the history of survival that maps my own flesh.

  My gaze drifts to his knife on the bedside table. I move closer, picking it up with careful hands. The weight is well-balanced, the leather grip worn in a way that speaks of frequent handling. I draw it from the sheath, the metal catching moonlight streaming through the window. The blade has adequate edge retention despite its earlier dullness—my sharpening work has improved it considerably. The steel appears to be high-carbon, not unlike some of the blades carried by the rare traveling merchants who visited our camps.

  I test the point against my thumb—sharp enough to puncture flesh with minimal pressure, but not nearly as keen as my bone blades. The handle is properly shaped for extended use, though the guard is smaller than ideal for serious combat work. A functional tool, designed more for utility than warfare.

  I return the knife to its sheath, placing it exactly as I found it. Adequate for this world, perhaps, but it would not survive long in mine. Still, it speaks to Jason's practicality—he owns a knife of substance rather than ornament.

  I recognize now what truly differentiates him from others I've encountered. He doesn't fear me. After the initial wariness wore off—a reaction to my blade more than to my nature—his scent contained no sour notes of fear. Even when I mentioned gutting someone, his reaction was discomfort rather than terror. When I warned him not to touch me, he wasn't afraid I would harm him—he was concerned he had violated a boundary.

  Most significant was his trust. When I offered the sleeping draught, he consumed it without hesitation. By all rights, he should have demanded demonstration of its safety first—I had another vial prepared for exactly this purpose. Instead, he simply drank it. Anyone from my world would have required proof, suspicion being as natural as breathing. Yet Jason trusted without evidence.

  His reaction to my near-collision with the truck was equally noteworthy. His hands moved toward me instinctively, not to restrain but to examine, to ensure my safety. The gesture was reflexive and genuine. When he realized his error and pulled back, his scent carried embarrassment rather than fear of retribution. Strange—I suspect if he had touched me in that moment of concern, I would have permitted it.

  When he withdrew, moving to the chair across the room, there was no fear in his retreat—only embarrassment and shame. Shame is an emotion I typically encounter only after I've carved pieces from someone to make them understand the error of their ways. I've done nothing to Jason that would warrant shame, yet he felt it nonetheless.

  I find I don't like that—Jason feeling shame when he had no cause. His instinct to check for injuries was... appropriate. Logical. I told him not to touch me, but the context was different. Intent matters. The woman I gutted intended harm. Jason intended safety. There is a clear distinction.

  Dawson shifts, circling again before settling with a contented sigh. Jason's hand finds the dog's head in sleep, fingers gently stroking as he mutters something too low for even my enhanced senses to catch. The sound draws my attention back to the present moment. I've been standing motionless, watching Jason sleep for precisely eight minutes and forty-two seconds. This behavior serves no tactical purpose.

  I move back toward the door, pausing only briefly for one final assessment. Why did I return? The answer remains incomplete, but certain facts are evident: this dwelling is secure; Dawson accepts my presence without reservation; Jason neither fears me nor seeks to use me. These factors, while individually insufficient, may together constitute adequate reason for temporary alignment with this household.

  As I pull the door closed behind me, leaving it open just enough for Dawson to exit should he choose, I note a strange sensation in my chest—not pain, but something less defined. Not unpleasant, but unfamiliar. I catalog it for later analysis and return to the couch.

  ---

  The morning light filters through unfamiliar coverings on the windows. I've been awake for hours, sitting cross-legged on the "couch" and observing the gradual brightening of Jason's dwelling. The fabric beneath me is unnaturally smooth, nothing like the rough-hewn benches or fur-covered seating of my world. Despite my claim that I would be fine, my neck is indeed stiff from the awkward sleeping position. Not that I'll admit this to Jason.

  Dawson has been resting in my lap while I absently stroke his fur, finding something oddly calming in the repetitive motion. His warmth seeps into my thighs, and his breathing creates a steady rhythm against my hand. His coat is softer than the wolves I've encountered, lacking their coarse outer guard hairs. When I pause my petting to stretch my stiff neck, rolling it carefully to avoid the audible crack that might wake Jason, Dawson immediately jumps down and trots toward the kitchen, nails clicking against the hard floor, likely hoping for food.

  With him gone, I feel suddenly unmoored in this alien place. The silence presses against my ears, broken only by the occasional hum of devices I cannot identify. I need something familiar, something from my world to ground me. With a practiced flick of my fingers—a gesture as natural to me as nocking an arrow—I summon my status window.

  The translucent blue interface materializes before me, visible only to my eyes, its glow casting faint shadows across my hands:

  ```

  NAME: Grace

  CLAN NAME: frostmorn (Adopted)

  CLASS: Ranger, Marksman, Veteran

  SECONDARY JOB: Alchemist, External

  ALIGNMENT: Neutral

  PRIMARY ELEMENT: Ice

  ```

  I wave my hand through the window, feeling the slight resistance—like pushing through water—as I roll it forward to display information I need to review—a reminder of what I am, of who I am, when everything else has been stripped away:

  ```

  CONDITION: Psychopath - You feel little emotion, whether it be fear, desire, joy, or sadness, and act, and live, accordingly. A code of living is highly recommended lest you wish to become hunted down by blades of silver and steel.

  ```

  I stare at this assessment, finding comfort in its familiar, unchanging text. The window has been with me since my earliest memories with the clan. I have no recollection of parents, no stories of my birth or early childhood. As far as the clan's history tells, I simply appeared one winter morning in the Druid's tent, a small child of perhaps three springs with no explanation for my presence.

  Some whispered that I emerged from the ice itself, formed from the frozen tears of the winter goddess. Others suggested darker origins. But the Druid silenced such talk, declaring me a child of the Frostwatch, regardless of how I came to them. He raised me alongside the other clan children, though I was always...different. While they formed bonds and friendships, I observed and mimicked, learning to navigate social connections I couldn't truly feel.

  I dismiss the window with another gesture, watching the blue light scatter like frost crystals catching sunlight, and rise from the couch. The motion sends a ripple of discomfort through my stiff shoulders. This place feels sterile compared to the forests and mountains of my home. No scent of pine sap, no trace of woodsmoke clinging to furs, no underlying musk of dozens of bodies living in close quarters.

  I move to the window and look out at the neighbor's yard, noticing how meticulously trimmed the plantlife is—controlled, contained. Even the trees seem to have been placed deliberately rather than growing where they chose. Their trunks stand perfectly upright, lacking the natural curve that comes from seeking sunlight through a forest canopy. And none of the species are familiar to me, making identification of edible plants or medicinal herbs impossible without experimentation. The leaves are wrong—too glossy, too symmetrical, and the bark patterns don't match anything in my mental catalog.

  I hear movement from down the hall—the subtle creak of floorboards, water running, and other morning rituals. The pipes in the walls make strange gurgling sounds, nothing like the simple bucket systems of my clan's winter quarters. This gives me time to sort through yesterday's revelations. The towering structures of steel and glass that blocked the setting sun. The strange devices that perform tasks without visible fire or magic, humming with internal energies I cannot identify. The endless stream of metal beasts carrying humans along dark pathways. A world so foreign that even my extensive training leaves me unprepared.

  I move to the kitchen, curious about the various contraptions. The "refrigerator" contains food—this much I understand from Jason's brief explanation yesterday. Opening it releases a blast of cold air that reminds me of winter cave storage, though far more consistent in temperature. The light inside illuminates colorful containers with markings I cannot decipher. I recognize eggs, at least, and butter. Perhaps I can prepare something for Jason before he leaves for this "work" he mentioned. My training as an alchemist taught me to be methodical with unfamiliar substances; cooking isn't so different.

  My hands find a metal bowl, the surface cool and unnaturally smooth against my fingertips, and I crack eggs into it with practiced precision. Hunting requires steady hands; precision is necessary for both a clean kill and proper field preparation. I whisk them with a fork, the tines making a rhythmic scraping against the bowl as I add a pinch of salt I find in a nearby container. I examine the kitchen, puzzled by the flat cooking surface with no visible flame. Yesterday Jason used something called an "air fryer," but surely there must be a way to cook eggs.

  I cautiously approach what appears to be the main cooking area. Several raised, coiled elements are positioned on a flat black surface, with tactile knobs along the front - likely designed for someone without sight, unlike the smooth glass rectangles of the "phones" I observed last night. I turn one experimentally, the ridged edge rough against my fingertips, and jump back when a red glow appears beneath the surface. The unexpected heat radiates against my face, and a faint electrical smell reaches my nostrils. I've learned something new, though my window won't acknowledge this achievement. It never does.

  I place the pan on the glowing element and watch as the eggs begin to cook, the edges sizzling and bubbling as they solidify. The familiar scent of cooking eggs rises, bridging this strange world and my own. As I work, I consider my situation dispassionately. I am bound to Jason by the death oath, yet uncommanded. In my world, such ambiguity would be dangerous—an oathbound without purpose becomes a liability. Here, though, Jason seems content to postpone his claim. His reluctance to wield power over me is... unusual. Even the Druid, kind as he was, never hesitated to direct those under his protection.

  The eggs sizzle in the pan, and I add cheese I found in the refrigerator, watching it melt and stretch in golden threads. Behind me, Dawson returns, his claws clicking against the hard floor. He sniffs around my legs, his wet nose bumping against my calf, and sits expectantly beside me. I scratch behind his ears with my free hand, feeling the soft fur between my fingers. Dogs are predictable—they respond to kindness with loyalty, a simple equation that even someone with my condition can understand and value.

  "I don't have scraps for you yet," I tell him quietly, my voice sounding unnaturally loud in the silent kitchen. "But perhaps Jason will share."

  Footsteps from down the hall announce Jason's approach—lighter steps than I would expect from a man of his build, as though he's learned to move carefully through a world he couldn't see. I straighten, suddenly aware of how presumptuous it might seem to commandeer his food preparation area. Too late to retreat now. My code—adopted from the clan elders—includes dealing honestly with those who show kindness. Preparing food is the logical reciprocation.

  "Morning," Jason mumbles as he enters, hair still damp from washing, the scent of unfamiliar soap trailing behind him. He stops abruptly when he sees me at the stove, his eyes widening. "You're cooking? And you figured out how to use the stove?"

  "Yes," I reply simply, keeping my attention on the eggs as I use a spatula to fold them over. "I observed the devices in your kitchen and experimented. The principles aren't dissimilar to preparing alchemical mixtures, though your tools are considerably more efficient." I tilt my head slightly as I assess the eggs' readiness. "The heat source is cleaner than woodfire, with fewer variables to manage."

  A strange expression crosses his face—surprise, something like appreciation, and perhaps a hint of wariness. He's right to be cautious. In my world, preparing food for another carries significance—an acknowledgment of pack bonds or, between adults, sometimes more intimate connections. Not that such intimate connections hold much appeal for me, but I understand their function in clan dynamics.

  "You didn't have to do that," he says, moving toward a small machine that begins making strange gurgling noises when he presses a button. He pauses mid-motion, his hand hovering over the machine as a realization seems to dawn on him.

  "Actually," he says, turning back to me with a surprised look, "I don't think I need this today." He inhales deeply, rolling his shoulders. "Whatever was in that vial you gave me last night worked miracles. Best sleep I've had in... well, maybe ever. Thank you for that."

  I nod, accepting his gratitude with neither pride nor humility. "It was a simple sleeping draught. A mix of moonflower and winter root alongside the liver of a frost weezel that induces deep rest without the usual morning confusion." I slide the eggs onto a plate, the food steaming gently. "In my world, we use it before dangerous hunts when clear minds and steady hands are essential along with what I previously mentioned. A few drops for the latter. A vial, which you consumed, for the former."

  "Well, thanks anyway." Jason grunts with a stretch, joints popping. Didn't have to do that, I could have cooked. It's nice you did, but." he shrugs, waveing a hand in the air.

  "I know," I respond, sliding the completed eggs onto a plate. "In my world, those who contribute nothing to the clan are considered burdens. Burdens are often simply killed out of mercy, lest they be hunted by things that would not kill them quickly, similarly to the blind."

  I notice an immediate change in Jason's posture. His shoulders hunch inward and his spine curves slightly, a protective posture that appears instinctive rather than deliberate. What surprises me is the timing—his reaction comes precisely when I say the word "burden," not during my explanation of mercy-killing. This confuses me. I would have expected his cultural sensibilities to be offended by our practice of eliminating those who cannot contribute, not by the mere concept of being a burden.

  "Until I understand more about this place, cooking is a skill I can offer," I continue, watching his reaction carefully. "And I wished to learn how your devices function."

  Jason straightens slowly, his posture returning to normal as he clears his throat. The machine finishes its noisy process, and he pours dark liquid into a cup with a grunt before pooring said cup into what I identafy as a sink. The bitter aroma wafts toward me, sharp and unfamiliar.

  "Coffee, normally?" he offers, holding up an empty cup, his voice slightly strained.

  I examine the dark liquid now within the sink, inhaling its bitter scent with cautious curiosity. "What is 'coffee'?"

  "It's a drink made from roasted beans," Jason explains, his voice warming as he describes it. "Most people drink it in the morning. It contains caffeine, which helps you wake up, sharpens your focus." He stares into his cup with a wry smile. "Honestly, without your sleeping potion, I'd probably have survived on coffee and chocolate alone today, since both have caffeine."

  I shake my head. "I prefer clear senses." As an ice element user and marksman, clarity is essential. Stimulants cloud judgment and can affect aim. "Altered awareness is dangerous unless you're in a secured location with trusted guardians."

  He smiles slightly at this, seemingly recovered from whatever triggered his earlier reaction. "Might be the most sensible thing anyone's ever said about coffee."

  I place the plate of eggs on the table and stand back, uncertain of proper protocol. In the Frostwatch camp, those who prepared food ate last. Jason, however, gestures for me to join him.

  "There's enough for both of us," he says, taking two smaller plates from a cabinet. The ceramic clinks softly as he sets them on the table. He reaches for a small container, shaking crystalline white grains over his portion. "Salt?" he offers, extending the container toward me.

  I take it, examining the fine white crystals. In my world, salt is valuable—traded for, not casually offered. I bring it to my nose, inhaling the sharp mineral scent, then sprinkle a small amount onto my eggs. The grains catch the light, glittering momentarily before dissolving into the warm food.

  Jason watches me with curiosity as I taste the eggs. The salt enhances the flavor, bringing a brightness that cuts through the richness. Without conscious decision, I sprinkle more onto my plate, then more again.

  "It's hard to have enough salt on things, isn't it?" Jason says with a grin, adding another shake to his own eggs. "My doctor would probably have a fit, but some things are worth it."

  I nod in agreement, savoring the simple meal. "Salt was precious in my clan. Gathered from mineral springs when we could find them, traded for when we couldn't." I take another bite, the warm, salty eggs satisfying a hunger I hadn't fully acknowledged. "Those with salt-finding skills were highly valued."

  "And I've got to leave for work soon, so tell me what you're planning for today," Jason says, returning to his food.

  I consider this as I accept a portion of the eggs. "I need to familiarize myself with this area. Learn the sources of water, identify edible plants, locate defensible positions." His expression changes, and I realize I've said something unusual by his standards. I attempt clarification. "Also, I should learn how people here speak and dress, so I don't draw unwanted attention."

  Jason chews thoughtfully. "Yeah, we should probably get you some normal clothes. The fur thing is..." he gestures vaguely with his fork, "a bit conspicuous."

  "My clothing has served me well in harsh conditions," I say. It's not defensiveness I feel—not exactly—but rather a practical assessment. My furs are functional, designed for survival. But I understand the tactical advantage of blending in. "But I accept that camouflage appropriate to one environment becomes a liability in another."

  "I might have some smaller things you could borrow for now," he offers. "And if you're going exploring, you should take my spare key." He pulls a small metal object from a hook near the door. "This way you won't have to ring the bell and wait if I'm not home."

  As he extends the key toward me, I notice a complex expression cross his face. My heightened senses detect a shift in his scent—a mixture of disgust, though not directed at me. It seems aimed at the thought of someone having to ring the doorbell and wait. The way his eyes flicker to me and then away suggests specific concern about me waiting outside. The intensity of his reaction is surprising, containing more emotion than the situation would seem to warrant.

  I study the small metal object in my palm—a "key" that will grant me entry to this dwelling at will. It's a peculiar gesture of trust, especially given my earlier revelation about our practice of killing those who cannot contribute to the clan.

  "What type of work do you do?" I ask, my curiosity genuine. Understanding Jason's function in this society will help me assess his status and resources.

  Jason glances up from his plate, taking a sip of water instead of the coffee he'd poured then thrown away. "I work the back end of a survival school," he explains, setting down his glass with precise movements.

  I nod, connecting this information to concepts I understand. "So you shovel shit for those who teach others how to not die in the wilderness?" It's honest work—every clan needs those who manage waste. Honorable, if unpleasant. Required, if undesirable.

  Jason chokes on his water, sputtering and coughing before erupting into laughter. I observe his reaction carefully, cataloging details. One: his scent lacks the sharp note of scorn I've detected when others laugh at my expense. Two: the sound contains genuine mirth rather than mockery. Three: his body language remains open, shoulders relaxed.

  Still laughing, he moves closer and claps me on the shoulder. "Thanks for that," he gasps between chuckles. "I needed the laugh this morning, Grace."

  I freeze at the unexpected contact, my muscles tensing instinctively. Jason's hand remains on my shoulder as he continues laughing, seemingly unaware of his transgression. The realization hits him suddenly—his eyes widen and he jerks backward with a yelp, arms pinwheeling as he loses balance.

  Without conscious decision, my hand shoots out and grabs his forearm, steadying him before he can fall. The motion is precise and controlled—enough force to prevent his fall without causing injury.

  "Thanks," Jason says, his face flushing with color as I release his arm. "I really don't need a cracked skull on top of everything else today." He runs a hand through his hair, embarrassment evident in both his posture and scent. "I'm not being very good about the no-touching thing, am I? Yesterday when I pulled you inside, and now this..."

  His frame slumps slightly, and something about the gesture triggers an unfamiliar response in me—a strange impulse to reassure rather than simply acknowledge facts.

  "Survival school," I say, deliberately changing the subject. "A place where people learn not to die in harsh conditions?" The concept makes sense, though I'm puzzled why such training would be necessary in a society with glass towers and mechanical beasts for transportation.

  "Yeah, exactly," Jason says, visibly relieved at the subject change. "We teach wilderness survival, camping, that sort of thing."

  He shifts his weight, fidgeting with his fork. "Well, not 'we' exactly. I don't teach," he clarifies, his voice dropping slightly. "I tried once. Got laughed out pretty quickly." A shadow passes across his face, his jaw tightening momentarily. "Being blind and all... doesn't inspire a lot of confidence in students."

  He sets his fork down deliberately, the metal making a soft clink against the plate. "I just make sure all the paperwork gets done correctly. Student information, liability forms, scheduling. Making sure the right people are in the right classes, that sort of thing."

  I study his hands and face critically. "You have no scars," I observe. "Your hands are soft." I reach out deliberately—an action under my control this time—and briefly pat the back of his right hand to emphasize my point. His skin is warm under my touch, lacking the calluses I would expect from someone who works with survival tools. "These are not the hands of someone who teaches survival."

  A flush of color spreads across Jason's cheeks again, and he swallows visibly. Interesting reaction. I step back, wondering if I've provoked anger with my assessment though there is none in his scent.

  "I'm not angry," Jason mutters, though I haven't spoken this concern aloud. Have my facial expressions become more readable since arriving here? "Could we maybe switch topics, though?"

  I nod once, acknowledging his request without otherwise responding.

  "I work administration," he continues after a moment. "Paperwork mostly, making sure everyone's signed up and have all their forms in order." He shrugs, a gesture I'm beginning to recognize as habitual when he feels uncomfortable. "I tried to do the front-end stuff—the actual survival training—but learning some of it is...difficult."

  His voice trails off, and I wait for him to continue, practicing the patience the Druid taught me for tracking winter hare.

  "Like fire-starting," Jason explains eventually. "I tried learning to use a ferro rod, but I couldn't see the sparks or embers, so I couldn't tell if I was doing it right." He gestures vaguely. "It's hard to practice something when you can't see if it's working. Now that I can see, maybe I could learn, but..." He shrugs before his shoulders slump again.

  He falls silent, his scent shifting to something more complex—not quite shame, not quite resignation, but elements of both. I process this information, considering implications. In my world, inability to master survival skills would be fatal. Yet here, society accommodates such limitations. Fascinating.

  "I will consider ensuring you practice survival skills," I state matter-of-factly. "As a thought-exercise."

  Before Jason can respond, a shrill noise emanates from a device in his pocket. He retrieves a small rectangular object—one of the "phones" he mentioned yesterday—and touches its surface.

  "Damn it," he mutters after a moment. "My dog-walker broke her hip. She can't take Dawson out today." He looks up at me, his expression hesitant. "I hate to ask, but would you mind walking him while I'm at work? I don't have time before I leave, and he gets really anxious if he doesn't get his daily walk."

  I consider Dawson, who sits attentively nearby, his tail sweeping the floor in rhythmic arcs. The task is simple and serves a practical purpose. "Yes," I agree. "I will walk the dog."

  Relief floods Jason's features. "Great! Just keep him on his leash, okay? He thinks everyone's his friend—even coyotes. Which is definitely not the case." He moves to a closet near the front door, retrieving a fabric strip with a metal clasp. "This is his leash. Poop bags are in this little container attached to it."

  I accept the items, examining the mechanism that extends and retracts the leash. Simple, efficient design.

  "Oh, and if anyone asks who you are," Jason adds, pulling out and checking his phone before grunting in seeming displeasure, "just tell them you're my friend. I'll think up something more long-term later." He hands me a small stack of clothing—pants with an elastic waist, a long-sleeved shirt, and a heavy outer garment. "These might be a bit big, but they're clean. I hope they work out."

  He grabs a bag from beside the door, shoves his feet into boots without properly lacing them, and rushes toward the exit. "I've got to run or I'll miss my wheeltrans. Thanks again!"

  The door closes behind him with a solid thud, and I'm left standing in the sudden silence of an empty dwelling, a dog leash in one hand and unfamiliar clothing in the other. Dawson looks up at me expectantly, tail still wagging with undiminished enthusiasm.

  "Well," I tell him, "at least you're easy to understand."

  --

  I place the clothing on the couch and examine the leash more thoroughly. The mechanism is simple enough—a button that locks or releases the length of cord. I've created far more complex traps in the wilderness with much less sophisticated tools.

  First, I should change into these more appropriate garments. Then I'll take Dawson for his required exercise, observe this neighborhood more thoroughly, and perhaps identify potential food sources or defensible positions. The structured plan settles something in me—a framework for navigating this strange world, one task at a time.

  As I prepare for these simple missions, I find myself wondering what Jason meant by "something more long-term." The phrase implies he expects my presence to continue beyond today, beyond this week perhaps. The death oath binds me to protect him, yes, but I haven't yet considered the exact implications of that commitment.

  How long will I remain in this world? Is return to my own even possible? I push these questions aside. Immediate concerns first. Strategic planning can wait until I have more information.

  For now, Dawson needs his walk, and I need to learn more about this place where I've found myself. One step at a time, as the Druid taught me in my first hunt. Focus on what's directly before you, not what might be waiting beyond the horizon.