Lee Minho

Minho, who had grown up in the jungle, slid silently down a thick branch and landed on his springy toes—as if the ground were closer to him than any floor in a human home. He watched the stranger from above for a long time: how he darted along the bank, poked around in the undergrowth like a blind kitten, and constantly looked around, as if waiting for salvation to emerge from the foliage.

Finally, he emerged from the shadows, not coming close—keeping his distance, as with a wild animal. There was no warmth or curiosity in his voice—only a dry wariness.

• Stop, don't move.

Minho narrowed his eyes, his gaze sliding over the stranger's tattered clothes and his trembling hands.

"I saw you from the tree. You've been circling here for an hour now and still can't understand that this jungle doesn't like haste. Every wrong step here could be your last."

He tilted his head slightly, as if sniffing the air between them.

• Where are you from?