Rain
I barely made it back to my tent.
Every inch of my body screamed. My ribs throbbed, my arms hung heavy at my sides, my legs felt like wet sandbags. The bruises had already started to bloom into deep purples and sick greens. My lip split so bad it pulsed with every beat of my heart.
The tent wasn't much. A thin foam mattress shoved into one corner. A battered wooden chair beside it. A bucket I used for water. The ground was firm, swept clean, with the scent of dry grass clinging to the air. No luxury, but not a hellhole either.
And right now — it was mine.
I collapsed next to the mattress, too sore to even lie down properly. I rested my head against the edge of the chair, letting my eyes flutter shut. The ache should've dragged me under. I should've let sleep swallow me whole.
But you don't sleep too deep in a place like this.
You might not wake up.
I didn't even hear the tent flap move. Didn't catch a sound.
What gave him away was the scent.
