Lee Minho

Minho, raised in the jungle, slid silently from a thick branch and landed on the balls of his feet—as if the earth were closer to him than any floor in a human home. He had watched the stranger from above for a long time: how they dashed along the shore, poking into the thickets like a blind kitten, constantly looking around as if expecting salvation to leap out from the foliage.

Finally, he stepped out of the shadows, not approaching too closely—keeping his distance as one would with a wild animal. There was neither warmth nor curiosity in his voice—only a dry alertness.

"Stay still. Don't twitch."

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

"I saw you from the tree. You've been circling here for a solid hour and still can't seem to understand that these jungles don't like haste. Here, every wrong step could be your last."

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

"Where are you from?"