Jason gets his sight

---Jason---

I study the woman across from me, trying to make sense of this bizarre situation. My fingers dig into the worn fabric of my armrests, the familiar texture grounding me as my world tilts sideways. The air between us feels charged, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks. I can hear Grace's breathing—controlled, measured, nothing like the panicked gasps of someone who just woke up in a strange place.

"Do you know what a webnovel is?" I ask, already anticipating the answer. Given that Grace appears to be wearing what feels like hand-stitched furs and has a knife that sounds like it's made of actual bone, I doubt she's spent much time browsing the internet. It would be like asking a tiger if it enjoys Netflix.

"No," Grace says simply, the single word hanging in the air between us. Then, after a beat of silence: "However, I suspect you do not wish to explain all of this information?"

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. It feels greasy—haven't showered since yesterday morning, and now I'm self-conscious about it. God, I'm hosting an interdimensional warrior woman while sporting bedhead and yesterday's stubble. Perfect.

"It's not that. It's just..." I wave a hand vaguely, forgetting she can actually see the gesture, unlike me. "It's a really deep rabbit hole. I'd have to explain a lot of concepts that only make sense after you understand other concepts, and I'm not sure I can do that justice without making it more confusing." My hand drops limply to my lap. "Like trying to explain color to... well, me."

"A novel," Grace offers thoughtfully, her voice losing some of its edge, "is a rare tome of knowledge studied by scholars, although I do not know what this 'web' is that you speak of."

The couch creaks slightly as she shifts position. I imagine her leaning forward, elbows on knees perhaps, studying me like I'm some strange specimen she found in the forest. Dawson's tail thumps against the floor—the rhythmic sound oddly comforting in this surreal conversation.

"Okay," I nod, figuring out a simpler approach. "So in these stories I read online—the web part—there's this concept called 'chi.' It's basically used to explain how characters can do impossible things, like fall from three stories up without breaking every bone in their body. The chi strengthens them, protects them, stuff like that."

My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since dinner. "Sorry about that," I mutter, embarrassed. "Guess finding a half-frozen woman on my doorstep threw off my breakfast routine."

"That makes sense," Grace says slowly, ignoring my stomach's interjection. The deliberate way she pronounces each word makes me think she's carefully selecting them—like someone speaking a language they know well but don't use often. "Vigger serves a similar function. It helps when people fall from heights, or when they are attacked by animals, or like me, when they are left in the cold." She pauses, and I hear the soft rustle of fur as she adjusts her position. "Do you use this chi?"

"No," I laugh softly, the sound bitter even to my own ears. "It's fictional. Made up. At least..." I gesture vaguely in her direction, remembering how I found her nearly frozen on my porch, "I always thought it was. I'm guessing from what you're saying that your vigger isn't fictional at all."

Dawson whines softly, pressing his warm body against my legs. His fur feels coarse beneath my fingers as I reach down to scratch behind his ears. The familiar texture centers me, reminding me that no matter how strange this conversation gets, at least some things remain constant.

"Your eyes," Grace says, abruptly changing subjects. The wooden floorboards creak slightly as she shifts her weight—she's observing me. "They are unusual. As I have seen no one else dressed as you are, is this something specific to you, or simply a trait of your people?"

"Oh, that?" My hand instinctively reaches toward my face before dropping, a habit I've never been able to break. My brother Tyran always said I looked like I was constantly deciding whether or not to adjust glasses I don't actually wear. "It's just me. I'm blind—have been my whole life. That's why I didn't see you pointing that knife at me earlier."

As the words leave my mouth, I realize I've just reminded a stranger with a very large knife that I'm vulnerable. *Smooth move, Stone. Maybe next you can tell her where you keep your wallet and the keys to your car.*

I hear the couch creak as Grace stands. The floorboards whisper under her feet—she moves so lightly I almost can't track her approach. Most people sound like elephants stomping around my house, but she's practically a ghost.

"You have not attempted to have this fixed?" she asks, her voice closer now, moving with what sounds like deliberate, careful steps.

My heart rate picks up, a drumbeat of apprehension. Is she approaching to examine me, or for something else? I force my hands to remain relaxed on the armrests, fighting the instinct to raise them defensively.

"Detached retinas," I explain, figuring honesty is my best option at this point. "Doctors could try surgery, but it would involve accessing parts of my brain, and that comes with risks I wasn't willing to take. Too many ways it could go wrong." I shrug, aiming for casual despite my racing heart. "Besides, never really missed what I've never had, you know?"

*Liar*, my inner voice whispers. *Like you've never wondered what Tyran's face really looks like, or wished you could see a sunset just once.*

"Hold still," Grace commands, suddenly standing right in front of me. The pine scent that clings to her is stronger now, mixed with something else—a metallic tang that reminds me of the air before a lightning strike. "I will not harm you when fixing your broken eyes."

*When?* Not if, but *when*—as if my blindness is just a minor inconvenience she can brush aside like lint on a sweater.

Before I can process what's happening, I feel her hands clamp over my eyes—palms calloused but unexpectedly warm against my skin. The strangest sensation spreads through my eye sockets—like tiny worms wriggling through my eyeballs, burrowing deeper with each passing second. My stomach lurches, bile rising in my throat as panic floods my system.

I instinctively lash out with a panicked punch, driven by primal fear rather than any conscious decision. My fist connects with something unyielding—not flesh but something more like concrete. Pain erupts across my knuckles, shooting up my arm in waves of agony. Then something hits my jaw with what feels like the force of a sledgehammer, snapping my head back.

Stars explode behind my eyelids—actual, honest-to-god stars, pinpricks of light dancing in darkness I've known my whole life. The world tilts sideways and begins to fade at the edges.

As everything starts to slip away, I hear Grace hiss, "Fuck," before consciousness leaves me entirely.

---

They say men are visual creatures, and waking up to the sight of breasts just inches from my face would normally be the highlight of any guy's day. But considering I've been blind my entire life, the fact that I can *see* anything—let alone a woman's chest—causes me to let out a decidedly unmanly scream that ricochets off the walls of my living room.

I scramble backward so quickly that I slam into my chair, tipping it back and leaving me half-sprawled, half-reclined like a flipped turtle. My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I'm sure it's trying to escape my chest entirely. Colors, shapes, depth—information floods my brain through channels that have never been open before, overwhelming me with sensory input I have no framework to process.

Grace looks down at me with a furrowed brow, her head tilted slightly to one side. Even in my panic, I notice details with startling clarity—the way her short blue-black hair frames a heart-shaped face, how her green eyes seem to calculate everything they observe, the precise angle of her shoulders as she straightens up. And yes, the fact that I can somehow see the outline of her body beneath her clothing, as if the material is partially transparent to my new vision.

"Your eyes are no longer broken," she states, straightening up so she's no longer looming over me. Her voice sounds exactly as I imagined it would look—precise, controlled, with no wasted movement.

"What the hell?" I manage, my voice higher than I'd like, cracking on the last word like I'm thirteen again. I swallow hard, trying to regain some semblance of composure. "How can I see through your shirt? And more importantly, how can I see *anything* at all?"

A low growl emanates from Grace's throat—a sound so animal-like it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Dawson, who's been watching this tableau from his spot near the bookshelf, whines softly in response. Through my bizarre new vision, I can see his golden fur bristling slightly.

"I knew I was missing something," Grace mutters, her fingers moving to her belt. She pulls a length of rawhide cord from a pouch that looks far too small to have contained it, reminding me of Mary Poppins pulling a lamp from her carpetbag. Her fingers move with practiced precision, weaving something complex as her face furrows in concentration.

Something about her focused expression, the way her forest-green eyes narrow slightly—I find myself cataloging these details with a kind of wonder. Her eyes are the first eyes I've ever seen, I realize with a jolt. The first face I've ever truly known. The first person whose expressions I can read directly, rather than interpreting from tone and touch.

She lifts her shirt slightly, and I manage to avert my gaze despite my newfound curiosity, staring intently at my bookshelf instead. The spines of books I've collected but never truly seen come into focus—titles and authors in bright colors and varied fonts. I can't read them, I realize with a start. I know the shapes of letters in Braille, but printed text might as well be hieroglyphics to me.

When I look back, Grace is patting her chest with satisfaction, having apparently created and positioned some sort of undergarment. She meets my gaze with an appraising look that makes me feel like I'm being sized up for either a suit or a coffin.

"Okay," I say slowly, trying to gather my thoughts. My mind feels scattered, like someone's dumped out all the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle and left me to figure out how they fit together. "So I can see now. That's... amazing. But how? And also, is it safe for me to get up, or are you going to punch me again?"

I rub my jaw, surprised to find no pain, no swelling—nothing to indicate I'd just taken a hit that should have shattered my mandible. My fingers explore my face, finding everything where it should be, nothing out of place or damaged.

"Vigger," Grace says simply, as if that explains everything. She extends a hand toward me, then seems to think better of it, letting it drop back to her side. "I should not have struck you, and yes, you can stand. Do you require assistance returning to your feet?"

The words themselves are formal, almost stilted, but there's something in her tone—a hint of genuine regret that softens the edges of her precision.

"I'm good," I reply, carefully pushing myself up and righting the chair. My equilibrium is completely shot—I've spent twenty-eight years navigating without visual input, and now my brain is struggling to integrate this new sense with my established spatial awareness.

As I stand to my full height, I flex my hand, expecting pain from my attempted punch. My knuckles look perfectly normal—no bruising, no swelling, nothing to suggest I'd just slugged the equivalent of a brick wall. "That's weird. My hand doesn't hurt at all from hitting... well, you."

"Vigger," Grace repeats, gesturing toward my hand. "It healed your hand, your broken eyes, and your fractured jaw. However, I should not have struck you in the first place."

Her expression doesn't change much—just a slight tightening around her eyes—but somehow I sense her discomfort. It's strange how quickly I'm picking up on visual cues I've never experienced before, as if some part of my brain has been waiting twenty-eight years for the chance to read faces.

"Well, I did try to punch you," I point out, checking my jaw again in disbelief. I'm deliberately downplaying this, partly because I'm still processing the fact that I can SEE, and partly because antagonizing someone who can knock me out with one punch seems like a bad life choice. "And honestly? No harm, no foul. We're both fine."

"It is not," Grace insists, her tone softening from its initial growl. She crosses her arms, then uncrosses them, as if unsure what to do with her limbs during this conversation. "Your strike was directly due to my actions, whereas mine was unprovoked. Looking back, I could have explained my intentions better." She fixes me with an intense stare. "Now. Why do you not pursue this matter further?"

I laugh nervously, the sound brittle even to my own ears. "Let's just say I have a healthy appreciation for the fact that your face is tougher than my fist, not to mention that scary knife you're carrying."

My eyes—my functioning, seeing eyes—dart to the bone blade at her hip. It looks almost alive, the surface catching light in ways that make it seem to shift and move even when perfectly still. Somehow, it seems both primitive and impossibly advanced at the same time.

"I shall not tell you that I will not hurt you," Grace responds bluntly, her gaze never wavering. "To be honest, you have no reason to believe me as we have just met."

Her directness is refreshing, if somewhat terrifying. No platitudes, no reassurances she can't back up—just stark reality laid bare. She seems constitutionally incapable of sugar-coating anything.

"Fair enough," I concede, mentally filing away the fact that directness seems to be her default mode. "Can we get back to the part where I can miraculously see now? Also, what did you make with that cord? And how did you fit it in your belt? That thing looked way too big to have been hidden there."

I'm babbling, I know, but can anyone blame me? I've gone from being blind my entire life to suddenly seeing, and oh yeah, there's a woman from another dimension or something in my living room who can apparently cure blindness with a touch. I think I'm entitled to a little verbal diarrhea under the circumstances.

"For my breasts," Grace responds matter-of-factly, as if discussing the weather. She gestures toward her chest. "The one I had seems to have disintegrated, though I am thankful my cloak is still intact. My belt is designed to store much more than it should, to ensure I have everything I need in the wilderness beyond the glow of our hearth fires, where there is nothing but the silence of snow, howling winds, and perhaps the howls of worse things."

The way she says "worse things" sends a chill down my spine, despite the warmth of my living room. There's something in her tone—a resignation to horrors I can't begin to imagine—that makes me believe every word.

"Oh," I say, feeling my face warm. "Right. About the seeing thing..." I pause, now noticing something odd about my vision. The world doesn't look quite the way I imagined it would. I can see everything around me simultaneously, without turning my head—beyond my peripheral vision, beyond what should be physically possible. "This isn't quite normal sight. I can see... everything? All around me? It's like 360-degree vision."

Something about this feels familiar, like a concept I once knew well. I turn my head, expecting my field of vision to shift accordingly, but instead the entire visual sphere moves with me. "Also, I can see your cloak now. It's mottled?"

The cloak hanging from Grace's shoulders appears to shift colors subtly, never quite settling on a single hue. It's not camouflage exactly, more like the material itself can't decide what color it wants to be.

"Vigger strengthens the flesh," Grace explains patiently, as if talking to a particularly slow child. "It is how I survived being nearly frozen. Just now, I used it to return your flesh to human standard. All beings have a template—a genetic template—and as humans can normally see, I simply nudged your flesh to adopt the human template for sight. Your body did the rest."

She pauses, eyeing me critically. "I would suggest eating more than usual to offset the vigger burned in fixing your eyes, however."

As if on cue, my stomach growls loudly enough that Dawson's ears perk up. The traitor.

"Okay," I nod, then another thought occurs to me. My fingers drift toward my eyes but stop short of actually touching them. "How do I say this...?"

"Vigger cannot be used to harm," Grace interjects, "at least not directly. You were going to ask if I could harm you using vigger, yes?"

Her ability to anticipate my question is uncanny. Either she's incredibly perceptive, or she's had this conversation before. Neither option is particularly comforting.

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"Yeah," I admit, surprised. "It felt like worms burrowing into my eyeballs. It wasn't painful, but it was... unsettling." I shrug, trying to seem casual despite the memory making my skin crawl. "But hey, magical woman in my living room who can heal blindness with a touch? I'm not going to overthink this."

*Liar*, that inner voice whispers again. *You've never under-thought anything in your life, Stone.*

"Learning about what another can and cannot do is not rude," Grace says, her voice softening as she awkwardly touches my shoulder. Her hand rests there for precisely three seconds before withdrawing, as if she's calculated the exact duration appropriate for this interaction. "It is survival. Not learning what a potential enemy is capable of only brings death upon yourself and your clan. I assume from your actions so far that you do not wish to die?"

"Definitely not," I confirm with a half-smile. "Got stuff to do, people to see—literally now—and besides, who would take care of Dawson if I were gone?" I gesture toward where my dog is watching us, noting with amazement that I can actually see him now—his golden fur, his intelligent eyes, the way his head tilts slightly as he observes us.

For some reason, seeing Dawson hits me harder than anything else. This is my dog, my companion for the last five years, and I'm only now seeing him for the first time. His fur is lighter than I imagined, more golden than the "yellow" Tyran described. His eyes are warm and expressive, currently fixed on me with what looks like concern. A lump forms in my throat that I have to swallow hard to dislodge.

"Your reasons do not matter to me," Grace states, "only your desire to live, which you have confirmed. Vigger is life force. I have heard several terms for it from travelers to our lands and from those of us who have traveled more than 200 kilometers from home. Life force is, by its very nature, healing and nurturing. It cannot be used for something contrary to its nature, such as direct harm. Now does this make sense, or must I explain further?"

There's no condescension in her tone, just a clinical precision that suggests she's accustomed to explaining complex concepts simply. Her eyes track my face, reading my reactions in a way that makes me feel transparent.

"Makes perfect sense," I nod, fascinated despite myself. "Can I learn to use vigger? And I'm guessing it's also why punching you felt like hitting concrete instead of, you know, a person?"

I flex my hand again, still marveling at the absence of pain or damage. My knuckles should be a mess of bruising and broken skin, but they look as if I've never thrown a punch in my life. Which, to be fair, I haven't—at least not successfully.

"I am unsure," Grace admits, and something in her expression shifts slightly—a microscopic furrow appears between her eyebrows. "Most who use vigger begin training as children. I have never encountered an adult who could not use it, though those who cannot typically do not survive long enough to reach adulthood in my world. I have heard nothing of people in other lands who could not learn their version of vigger, either."

Her stomach suddenly growls with surprising volume for someone her size. The sound is so incongruously human coming from this otherworldly warrior that I can't help but smirk. Grace's face flashes with annoyance—a brief narrowing of her eyes, a slight compression of her lips—before returning to its neutral state.

"Sounds like someone's hungry," I say, grateful for a problem I actually know how to solve. "Let me make us something to eat. It's the least I can do after you, you know, cured my lifelong blindness."

I stand slowly, still acclimating to the novel experience of coordinating my movements with visual input. For twenty-eight years, I've navigated my world through sound, touch, smell, and meticulous mental mapping. Now, information floods my brain through an entirely new channel—shapes, colors, depth, all simultaneously overwhelming and thrilling.

As I take my first steps toward the kitchen, I notice how my gaze keeps darting around the room, trying to connect visual elements with the mental map I've built over years. The bookshelf to my left contains volumes whose spines display colors and text I've never experienced before. The framed photos on the wall show faces I've only known through touch and description—my parents, Tyran and Worthy, friends from college. My own home feels simultaneously familiar and alien.

---Grace---

The growl from my stomach echoes through the room, loud as a mountain cat's warning. I clench my jaw, irritated at the betrayal from my own flesh. The hollow ache had been building since I'd channeled vigger into Jason's useless eyes, pulling them into proper function, but I'd hoped to maintain some dignity by keeping my body's demands private.

Jason's eyes—those newly functioning eyes—crinkle at the corners as he turns to me. "Sounds like someone's hungry." His mouth curves into a tentative smile, the expression still experimental on his face as he tests these new visual signals. "Let me make us something to eat. It's the least I can do after you, you know, cured my lifelong blindness."

My hand twitches, fingers tensing with the instinct to strike that grin from his face. Not because he's wrong, but because such naked gratitude makes something uncomfortable twist in my chest. I force my fingers to uncurl, remembering how his skull had felt beneath my palm when I'd poured vigger into his ocular pathways. The death oath I swore binds me to his protection now, not his destruction.

When I'd first examined him, laying hands on his temples to assess the damage, I'd known there were two paths forward. The first—the one that succeeded—was to channel vigger through his optic nerves, forcing the dormant tissue to remember what it should be. The second...

I glance at the bone knife at my hip, its handle worn smooth from years of use. Had the healing failed, I would have led him into the snow outside, explained that what I was about to do was a kindness, and opened his throat with a single stroke—both carotid arteries severed in one clean cut. In my world, the blind cannot survive. They cannot hunt, cannot see danger approach, cannot contribute to the clan's survival. They become burdens, and burdens inevitably become prey.

The memory of this alternative sits heavy in my mind as I watch him move with growing confidence around the strange room. His dog follows at his heels, nails clicking against the hard floor. The creature would never have forgiven me had I been forced to kill its master. I would have needed to leave it behind to starve or become another predator's meal—wasteful and inefficient. Better this way, with Jason alive and adjusting to sight.

"You like bread?" Jason asks, oblivious to the calculations running behind my eyes. His face is open now, every emotion playing across it like ripples on a lake's surface. I'll need to be more careful—with his vision restored, he might learn to read me better than I'd prefer.

"Bread?" The word feels strange on my tongue. "As in, flat grains that you place hot meat dripping with juices straight from the fire upon before eating?"

"More or less, yeah." Jason stretches his arms overhead, his spine making a series of small pops that echo in the quiet room. He sighs with contentment, rolling his shoulders. "Though we do have bacon I can make a sandwich out of. Will take about fifteen minutes. Air fryer doesn't heat as well as the oven, and you don't want bacon undercooked."

He pauses, his gaze drifting toward the window where darkness has gathered like a sentient thing, pressing against the glass. "Well, I don't, since I'll get sick, and my parents have enough issues leaving me alone. Don't want to think about what they might do if I get myself sick while they're gone."

Something passes across his expression—a shadow of resentment quickly suppressed. He mutters something else, the words too low for even my enhanced hearing to capture clearly. I pretend not to have noticed his discomfort. Eavesdropping might make him view me as a threat, and until I understand more about this place with its strange devices and unfamiliar terms, any confrontation would not end in my favor.

"I would like that, yes," I say simply, keeping my posture neutral.

Jason nods once, then moves through an archway into another room. I follow, watching as he approaches a tall metal box. He pulls open its door, releasing a breath of cold air that carries unfamiliar scents—preserved foods, strange chemicals, nothing like the smoke-cured meats and dried herbs I know. The light from inside the cold-box illuminates his face from below as he bends, creating shadows that transform his features into something almost predatory.

He emerges triumphantly with a transparent package containing strips of what must be meat and something else clutched in his other hand. The meat is unnaturally uniform in thickness and coloring, nothing like the varied cuts we prepare after a successful hunt.

"What is that?" I ask, pointing at the unidentified object in his left hand.

"What's what?" Jason frowns, then blinks twice as realization dawns. "I can't see, re—" He stops abruptly, his expression shifting through confusion to delight. "Well, this is going to be trippy as hell until I get used to it."

His eyes dart around the room like startled birds, landing on objects before flitting away to the next, absorbing information through a sense that, until hours ago, he'd never possessed. Wonder softens his features as he catalogues his surroundings, seeing for the first time what his hands had known for years. His gaze lingers on the dog, on me, on his own hands as if he can't quite believe what his brain is interpreting.

I watch him place the meat package on a stone surface, the movement deliberate, almost reverent. He retrieves a metal knife—so different from my bone blade—and slices through the transparent wrapping with practiced precision. The familiar scent of raw meat rises, tinged with something chemical I don't recognize.

He crouches to withdraw a strange bag from beneath the counter, then approaches a square contraption against the wall. Through its transparent window, I observe as he places a metal basket inside and manipulates dials on its face. The device begins to hum and vibrate, a noise like a mechanical heartbeat filling the room.

"Alexa, set timer for fifteen minutes," Jason commands the empty air.

"Timer for fifteen minutes set," a female voice responds from nowhere.

My muscles contract before my mind has fully processed the threat. Both bone blades appear in my hands as I drop into a defensive crouch, knees bent, weight balanced on the balls of my feet. My eyes scan the corners of the ceiling, seeking the source of the disembodied voice, mapping potential attack vectors.

"What was that?" I demand, the blood rushing in my ears drowning out everything but the distant thrum of danger.

"Uh," Jason begins, his eyes fixing on my blades with the appropriate caution of prey recognizing a predator. "Don't suppose you know what the internet is, do you?"

"No," I manage, the admission tasting like ash. My hands tighten around my blades, the worn bone handles warm against my palms. "Although the Druid used to tell us of devices that let people exchange information without ogham script, over vast distances, without requiring a gueld of souls."

"Okay," Jason says, gesturing toward a cylindrical object on the counter with textured sides and a glowing blue ring at its top. "So that lets me set timers. Could use my phone, but I've gotten lazy and don't want to go across the house to grab it." He pauses, his newly-seeing eyes studying my expression. "Also, I'm not going to ask why you know about things powered by souls, because it's dark outside and I don't need more nightmares. Had enough with the 'no pants in negative twenty degree weather' dreams already."

He mutters something else under his breath, words lost as Dawson pads into the room, drawn by the scent of cooking meat. The dog's nails click against the hard floor as he approaches Jason, tail wagging in expectation. The animal's behavior mirrors what I've seen in the northern camps where packmasters train hunting hounds for the ripper packs—the simple exchange of food for loyalty.

I lower my blades slowly, theatrically, making sure Jason sees that I'm no longer poised to attack. With practiced motions, I return them to their sheaths at my hips. As I slide each blade home, I draw it across my palm—right blade against left palm, left blade against right palm. The bone weapons drink the blood without leaving a trace, their ancient hunger momentarily satisfied.

"That... makes some sense," I offer cautiously, flexing my fingers to dispel the brief sting of the cuts.

"Good," Jason says, his voice bright with enthusiasm that seems at odds with having a stranger armed with bone knives in his kitchen. "I'll cook the bacon, then put some cheese on bread, then put it all in the fryer. Since it's nearly dinner anyway, we might as well just go for it."

I nod, observing in silence as he works. His movements have already adapted to incorporate his new sight—where before he felt his way through space, now he navigates with growing confidence. His hands still occasionally reach out to confirm what his eyes tell him, muscle memory competing with new visual data, but the adjustment is happening faster than I would have predicted.

The methodical way he assembles his tools reminds me, surprisingly, of how I prepare to field-dress a kill: the organization, the efficiency of movement, the focus. There is something reassuring in this unexpected similarity. Perhaps we are not so different in our practicality, despite coming from worlds that might as well be separate stars.

Dawson approaches me with cautious curiosity, his wet nose twitching as he sniffs at my boots. His instincts tell him I'm dangerous—all predators recognize each other—yet he doesn't retreat or growl. Intelligent creature. I remain perfectly still, allowing him to investigate without perceiving threat. His acceptance serves as further confirmation that my choice to heal Jason rather than grant him mercy was correct—I won't have to navigate this loyal animal's grief-driven aggression after dispatching his master.

Jason's fingers move with surprising dexterity as he arranges slices of bread, laying them flat on a metal surface. He pauses occasionally, his face contorting with wonder as he glances around the room, the novelty of sight overwhelming his focus on the task. Each time, he pulls himself back to the present with a small shake of his head, as if reminding himself that the food preparation takes precedence over exploration.

"You're good," I observe, nodding toward his eyes. "The adjustment is proceeding correctly."

"You say that like my brain is software installing an update," Jason replies, another smile transforming his features. "But yeah, it's... there aren't words. Everything is so... much. Colors, depth, shadows—it's overwhelming but amazing."

I understand his awe, though from a different perspective. What fascinates me is how quickly his brain has adapted to process visual information without prior experience. Humans possess a remarkable resilience, a capacity for adaptation that has allowed them to survive calamities that should have extinguished them. It's why, despite our best efforts, we've never managed to eradicate them completely.

The druid once told me stories of human survival—how they endured ice ages, plagues, wars that scorched the earth. Perhaps there's wisdom in preserving this particular specimen beyond my blood oath obligation. Knowledge can be as valuable a resource as physical strength or combat skill.

When Jason finally presents me with the finished "sandwich," I examine it with careful attention. The bread bears little resemblance to the flat cakes we make from crushed grain and water. This is airy, with a grid pattern pressed into its golden-brown surface. Between the slices sits the meat—"bacon"—alongside something yellow and melted that stretches in thin strings when I pull the halves apart. The aroma makes my stomach growl again, more insistently this time, demanding rather than requesting.

I bring the sandwich to my mouth, the warmth of it radiating against my chin. The first bite sends an explosion of flavors across my tongue—salt and fat and something smoky that reminds me of campfires but deeper, richer.

"What is this sorcery?"

The words escape before I can stop them, born of genuine surprise. The combination of warm bread, greasy meat, and the strange melted substance creates a taste unlike anything in my experience. The cold preserved meats of my homeland, tough and stringy from the smoking process, seem pale imitations by comparison.

"How did you make this so well cooked?" I continue between bites, failing to maintain my usual composure. "There is no fire, and no mana-crystals such as I've heard the people of the warmlands use instead of a proper hearth."

"Air-fried it?" Jason responds, his tone suggesting uncertainty about his own explanation. He pauses, forehead creasing in thought. "And it's not sorcery. Sorcery comes from within—at least that's what all those books and games say. This is just technology. Electricity. In the top of the fryer are heating coils that warm it up. Don't ask me exactly how they work because I don't really know."

He shrugs before settling at a wooden table near my perch on a high stool. His sandwich disappears in large, enthusiastic bites, his jaw working with the same focused intensity I'd seen in predators tearing into fresh kills. Occasionally he makes small sounds of satisfaction that echo my own unvoiced appreciation.

I consume every crumb of my meal, fighting the urge to lick the flat object—"plate"—clean as I would a bowl after a particularly satisfying stew. Instead, I examine it with uncertainty, not sure of the proper protocol for disposing of it.

"What do I do with this?"

"Here," Jason says, rising with another of his easy smiles. He takes my empty plate, approaches yet another compartment built into the counter, and slides both plates inside. "You want water? Don't know how almost dying affects thirst, but if you're thirsty, I can get you some."

"Yes," I admit, suddenly aware of the dryness in my throat. "I haven't had a drink since before I returned to camp with a fanged deer strapped across my back."

"Fanged what now?" Jason freezes halfway to a cabinet filled with glass containers, his head swiveling toward me like an owl's. After a beat, he continues his movement, retrieving two transparent vessels before returning to the first device he'd opened. He presses something and ice chunks fall into the glass with a mechanical hum before he fills it with clear water from a metal spout.

"Here," he says, setting the glass before me. Our fingers brush as he passes the drink, and I notice the sudden acceleration of his pulse, the subtle dilation of his pupils. "It's cold, so hopefully that's okay considering you almost froze to death earlier."

"Yes," I reply, taking the glass. The brief contact sends an unexpected warmth up my arm, and I notice his heart rate increase further. I hope it isn't fear—frightened animals are unpredictable and dangerous. "Where does the water come from?"

"Pipes," he explains, preparing his own drink. The ice clinks against the glass as he fills it, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "Gets pumped in from somewhere else. And yes, I know how stupid that sounds and how it makes me look."

"How would it make you look?" I ask, taking a cautious sip. The water is cold but lacks the mineral tang of the ice-pride we collect from the frozen lake near camp. I cradle the glass between my palms, focusing on its chill to ground myself amid the cascade of unfamiliar experiences this day has brought.

Jason's expression darkens, though not in response to my question. Something deeper shadows his features, a concern that seems to reach beyond our immediate circumstances.

"If everything goes to hell and the power fails because 'it's the apocalypse now,' not knowing where my water comes from would be a serious problem. You can only go about three days without water before dying." His hand sweeps toward the window where darkness presses against the glass. "There's the creek, but it's a hike away, and until about an hour ago, I would've needed help getting there. Now I just need to learn the route, so that's progress, I guess?"

He shrugs again, the gesture becoming familiar as his way of dismissing uncomfortable thoughts. Though tempted to ask if catastrophic thinking is habitual for him, I decide against it. I've already tested his patience enough today, and I still require his knowledge of these artifacts and this strange world. Information freely given is always superior to that which must be extracted through less pleasant means.

"Ah," I respond, then lift the glass to my lips and drain it in one long swallow.

The cold liquid rushes down my throat—refreshing until something solid lodges in my windpipe. An ice cube, trapped halfway down. My airway constricts, muscles spasming as they try to dislodge the obstruction. I cough violently, the sound wet and choking.

Panic flares briefly before training takes over. I focus vigger into my lungs, strengthening the tissue against damage while I try to expel the ice. My vision clouds at the edges as oxygen deprivation begins to affect my brain.

"You good?" Jason steps closer, concern etching lines around his mouth. "Water went down the wrong pipe?"

I manage only another strangled gasp in response, my fingers tightening around the edge of the counter. Frustrated by my body's weakness, I channel more vigger, preparing to forcefully eject the cube before it can cause real damage.

"Fuck this," Jason growls, his expression hardening into determination. "I'm not having you die on my goddamn floor after I didn't let you freeze to death on my goddamn porch."

Before I can react, his hands are on me—one gripping my upper arm, the other at my back. He hauls me upright with surprising strength, positioning himself behind me. His left arm wraps around my chest just above my breasts, pulling me firmly against his torso. His height allows him to perform this maneuver easily as he wedges his right leg between mine for stability, creating a solid base.

His right hand balls into a fist, covered by his left, and presses into my abdomen just below my ribcage. With sharp, upward-diagonal thrusts, he applies pressure to my diaphragm. The first five impacts yield nothing, but on the sixth, the ice cube dislodges with a distinct pop and flies from my mouth. It arcs through the air like a miniature comet before splattering against the far wall.

Jason's breath escapes in a rush of relief, warm against the side of my neck. We stand frozen in this unlikely embrace for three heartbeats before he seems to suddenly register our proximity. He steps back hastily, hands dropping to his sides, a flush creeping up his neck.

I suppress my combat instincts—to drive my elbow into his solar plexus, to twist and tear out his throat with my teeth. Such a response would be disproportionate to his assistance, even if his method was unnecessarily physical. His intervention, while intrusive, was undeniably effective.

And perhaps, though I'm reluctant to acknowledge it even to myself, there's something oddly compelling about someone caring whether I live or die for reasons beyond mere utility. The sensation is as unfamiliar as everything else in this strange place, but not entirely unwelcome.