The wind had shifted.
It wasn't something Orion noticed at first—not with his eyes or ears. It wasn't even the smell. It was the way the silence settled into his gut. Heavy. Unmoving.
Tyrunt stopped walking before Orion did.
He tilted his head, sniffed the air, and growled low in his throat.
Shinx, for once, didn't chirp.
Grotle exhaled like a slow drumbeat and stepped protectively between Orion and the path ahead.
That was when Orion saw the trail of trampled grass.
Barely a line. Almost grown back.
But someone had come through here recently. Not a wild Pokémon—Orion had seen enough of those trails to recognize the difference. This was boots. Human-shaped. Rushed.
And it led off the main path.
Orion hesitated.
He could keep walking.
He should keep walking.
But curiosity, that slow, dangerous voice in the back of his skull, had other plans.
He stepped off the trail.
The campsite wasn't far.
Just past a bend in the ridge, tucked behind a wall of tangled brush and shallow stone.
It wasn't big. Just a fire pit, a bedroll, and the scattered remains of what had clearly been a hasty packing job.
Orion crouched low, hand hovering near his belt.
The fire pit was still warm.
Not hot. But definitely not cold.
Someone had been here.
Within the last day.
Maybe less.
Tyrunt sniffed the air again, growled softer this time, and padded forward, nose down.
Shinx paced near the edge of the clearing, ears twitching, tail low.
Grotle didn't move from the perimeter.
Orion took another step in.
There was a mug near the fire.
Cracked down the middle.
The contents had spilled. Something brown and sticky. A ration drink, maybe.
Half a wrapper fluttered near the pit. Torn, soaked from dew.
There was a dented Poké Ball in the dirt.
Empty.
He picked it up. No blood. No burn marks. Just… broken.
Like someone dropped it—or crushed it.
Or ran.
He didn't say anything.
Just kept moving.
The bedroll was still there.
Soaked through. Torn on one corner.
No bag.
No shoes.
Nothing that screamed attack, but nothing that looked planned either.
He crouched again and ran a hand over the ground.
Bootprints. Uneven. Deep on the heel.
Whoever left did it fast. Maybe limping.
Orion stood slowly.
"This isn't right."
Tyrunt stopped sniffing and sat down, tail flicking with slow irritation.
Shinx pawed at the dented Ball, then hissed at it and backed away.
Orion pocketed it.
Not because it was useful.
Because leaving it felt worse.
He took only what he could use.
A small multitool.
Three sealed food tablets in the corner of the fire pit, still inside their plastic wrap.
A short flare stick—half used, but not broken.
He left the rest.
He didn't touch the bedroll.
Didn't touch the cracked mug.
Didn't touch the broken Poké Ball again.
As they turned to leave, Orion looked back once.
He couldn't shake the feeling that whoever had camped there hadn't just left.
They'd run.
And not fast enough.
Back on the trail, no one spoke.
Shinx didn't jump.
Grotle didn't feed.
Tyrunt didn't growl.
Orion walked in silence, but the noise in his head was deafening.
That could've been him.
Weeks ago.
Before Tyrunt.
Before Grotle.
Before Shinx tased a bird out of the air and curled up in his lap like a smug little furnace.
He could've been the guy with the crushed Ball, the cracked mug, and the empty fire pit.
Forgotten.
Unburied.
Still warm.
They made camp early that evening.
Not far—just far enough that Orion felt like he'd broken some invisible chain.
There was no fire.
He didn't light one.
Just set the perimeter, let the team out, and sat against a tree with his knees drawn up.
Tyrunt patrolled once, then lay down nearby.
Grotle curled in a patch of dry moss, unmoving.
Shinx climbed halfway into Orion's lap and tucked his face into the crook of his elbow.
For once, Orion didn't complain.
He stared at the stars through the branches.
Didn't write.
Didn't speak.
And for the first time in a long time, he didn't feel strong.
He just felt alive.
And that, tonight, was enough.