Grub stayed awake long after the camp had gone quiet. The ridge itself was never truly silent though. Wind scraped along the stone like fingernails. Far below, the jungle hissed and shifted. Somewhere in the distance, something called out—an animal, maybe. Or something pretending to be one. But the humans on the ridge had finally stopped moving. The hammering had died. The murmuring had turned into sleep. The fires—small, weak fires—had sunk into embers.

  Grub stared up at the roof of his tent—observing each root and vine. It reminded him of a bird nest more than a shelter. It was barely a home.

  A week ago, he’d been inside a monster, drowning in acid, clawing at a beating organ that should not have been there in the first place. A week ago, he’d been full of other people’s deaths. Screams stuck under his eyelids. Fear trapped in his throat. Regret was like a weight tied to his ribs. It was an indescribable feeling.

  Now it was quiet—oh so very quiet. He shifted slightly and immediately regretted it. Pain flashed through his ribs. He had gotten used to the constant pain from his ribs but it still bothered him. They didn’t have the materials or knowledge to fix such a severe wound so he had no way to ease the pain. His leg throbbed beneath the paste and bandages. Every time his heartbeat slowed, the burn seemed to wake up. Now it wasn’t just his ribs that constantly it was his leg too. I am just racking up injuries, Grub thought as he exhaled slowly and stared at nothing. Completely lost in his own mind.

  They had given him a name.

  Grub.

  It still felt like clothing that didn’t fit him yet. Like wearing someone else’s jacket. Too heavy in the shoulders. Too warm around the throat. He could hear Wrighty’s laugh from earlier, could still see Shiela’s eyes shining like she was holding back tears, could still hear the way Gravel said it—flat and final, like a stamp pressed into wet wax. Names matter. You earn them. But Grub didn’t feel earned. Not in the way they meant. He truly didn’t feel like a hero. He felt like a survivor who had done what he needed to do to survive. And survivors didn’t stay in places that could limit them.

  The grub came because they were loud. It was a simple fact that they were easy pickings for any big monster to come get a meal. And the ridge—this little makeshift village—was becoming the same thing again. People hammering like before, gathering together, cooking food and chatting. Or doing some other naughty things.

  All of it made for an easy target.

  Grub swallowed and tasted old blood in the back of his throat. He pressed his palm lightly to his ribs as if he could calm the ache by touching it, alas, it had no affect. He didn’t want another monster to choose them. He didn’t want to have to care again. He nearly died because he cared. That was the truth he wouldn’t say out loud: when you’re alone, you only lose yourself. When you’re with others, you lose them too. And you feel it and it changes you permanently.

  He stared at the ceiling until his eyes grew heavy. His mind tried to drift, tried to slide into sleep. But a thought kept returning like a hook.

  Who was he?

  He didn’t even know what he was leaving behind. He just knew the shape of it—the empty parts of his mind felt like a missing tooth you can’t stop touching with your tongue. Eventually, exhaustion did what willpower couldn’t. His eyelids shut. The ridge faded and Grub slept into a proper slumber.

  ****

  Morning on the ridge came quickly. The sun rose slowly, pouring light through the gaps in leaves and sticks, turning the air hot too fast. The wind smelled like damp earth and crushed plants. It gave the area a unique smell. It wasn’t pleasant but it wasn’t terrible either. Grub woke with his ribs hurting as usual and his throat dry.

  For a moment, he didn’t remember where he was. Then he tried to move and pain reminded him instantly.

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  He sat up slowly, gritting his teeth. The tent spun just a little. He quickly ignored the nausea and looked down at his leg. The paste had dried into cracked green lines along the bandages. It looked ugly and made his skin look even weird But when he flexed his toes again, they moved with a little less pain. He exhaled. That was enough good enough he supposed.

  Outside, the ridge was already alive. People spoke in low voices. A boy dragged wood across stone.While a girl was laughing at and teasing him. The boy started tickling her after she continued to mess with him too long. The pair of survivors broke out into laughter as the played around.

  Grub listened for a second, then began gathering what he could. There wasn’t much. A small bundle of dried food. A piece of cloth. A rough water skin. A few sharp stones. He also made sure to pack another club which had been to given to him. He moved carefully, slow and precise, because every sudden motion punished him. His hands were steady and his mind was clear. He had made up his mind—He wasn’t going to tell anyone.

  It wasn’t because he hated them. Nor because he didn’t care. Instead, it was because if he looked them in the eyes while leaving, part of him might want to stay. And the part of him that stayed would become a weakness.

  He tied the bundle tighter and was about to pull it over his shoulder when the tent flap rustled.

  Wrighty ducked inside like he owned the place. He held to plates with his one hand and was smiling ear to ear. The smell of cooked meat hit Grub first. His stomach growled as he stared at the meal Wrighty had in his hands.

  Wrighty grinned at him with seemingly no care for the previous events. He seemed completely happy now despite sobbing just a week ago. Maybe he just moved on quickly.

  “Morning,” Wrighty said, voice bright. Then he held the plate out. “Eat.”

  Grub stared at the food. he plate had a mixture of vegetables and nuts that had been picked nearby and test for safety. The meat in the plate was a dark black and seemed juicy. The boy thought for a moment before realizing what the meat was from—the grub.

  Wrighty watched his face and laughed once. “Yeah, I know. It’s kinda messed up. But Gravel said if we don’t use it, it’s wasted. And if I survived that acid bath it spit just to starve, I’m gonna be mad.”

  Grub decided not to take the plate.

  Wrighty’s smile softened slightly. “Come on. You need it.”

  Grub ignored him and kept packing.

  Wrighty’s gaze dropped to the bundle. He blinked. “Uh… what are you doing?”

  Grub had no intention to answer. Wrighty waited a beat, still holding the plate, like he thought maybe Grub hadn’t heard him. Then he tried again, slower.

  “Doc,” he said. “What are you doing?”

  Grub tightened the knot. Wrighty’s grin was fading now. His posture changed—just a little. It had less of his usual playful vibe. He was bracing for something he didn’t want to hear. Grub finally looked up. His eyes felt dry. His voice came out calm and calculated.

  “I’m leaving.”

  Wrighty stared at him like the words were a joke that didn’t land.

  Then he forced a laugh— a small one. “Alright, funny guy. Don’t do that.”

  Grub didn’t move. Wrighty’s laugh died.

  The plate lowered slightly. His brows knit together. “You’re serious.”

  Grub kept his tone flat. “I’m not settling here.”

  Wrighty stepped closer like he could physically block the idea. “Why? You just— you just saved everyone and you just woke up! Dude, you can’t even walk right.”

  “I can walk,” Grub said.

  Wrighty’s eyes flashed. “Barely!”

  Grub’s ribs ached as he spoke. He ignored it. “Being here got people killed. Being together got people swallowed. That isn’t the only reason but it’s a main one.”

  Wrighty opened his mouth, shut it, then tried again. “That wasn’t our fault. That thing was— that thing was insane.”

  Grub’s gaze sharpened. “It found us because we were together.”

  Wrighty’s jaw tightened.

  Grub looked back down at the bundle. “I’m not doing it again. I have stuff I have to know before I die. And staying here…feels like I won’t get the chance to know them.”

  Wrighty stood there for a long moment, breathing through his nose. Then he set the plate down slowly, his hand shook while doing it but it wasn’t the weight of the wooden plate making Wrighty shakes. He tried one last time, voice quieter.

  “Doc… don’t go.”

  Grub didn’t answer.

  Wrighty’s shoulders dropped. He wasn’t just defeated—he was hurt. Like someone had pressed a thumb into a bruise. Or if your first friend wanted to leave you behind.

  “…Fine,” Wrighty muttered, and turned away. He ducked out of the tent, leaving the plate behind as an offering that had been refused. Grub stared at it for a second.

  Then he went back to packing.