"Every man has his secret sorrows that the world knows not. And often time we call a man cold when he is only sad."
The perfect man.
Made rough through time.
He lies, yet he is the honorable one.
He kills, yet he is the most righteous.
He is gentle...
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Jun 18, 2019, France.
He lay curled in a fetal position against the jagged mountain wall, his body trembling uncontrollably despite the thin windbreaker clinging to him. The first rays of morning light began to creep over the horizon, gilding the opposite canyon with a surreal glow. It would have been beautiful, if not for the dull, incessant throb in his head, a constant reminder of last night’s ordeal. His thoughts were clearer now, but hunger, thirst, cold, and pain had nearly driven him to madness in the darkness. He had been on the verge of throwing himself into the river below just to escape the torment.
The chocolate bar he had rationed through the night was long gone, and his throat felt like sandpaper, rasping with every breath. Sunlight would warm his skin eventually, but what of the thirst gnawing at his sanity?
Forcing himself upright, he leaned against the cold, rough stone, surveying his surroundings with bleary eyes. Then, a flicker of movement caught the edge of his vision—a shadow, almost a hundred yards away, shifting. He blinked hard, convinced it was a mirage, a trick of his dehydrated mind.
But no, it wasn’t. A figure—a girl, no older than him—stood at the canyon’s edge, gazing down at him with an unreadable expression. His heart pounded erratically, a mixture of hope and desperation surging within him. He tried to call out, but the only sound that escaped was a strangled croak. Panicking, he tore off his windbreaker and waved it above his head like a flag, his good arm straining with the effort.
She stood there, unmoving, for what felt like an eternity. Then, without a word, she turned and vanished.
Despair crashed over him. She had seen him, he was certain, but she had just... disappeared. Was he imagining all of this? Had the nightmare continued in his waking hours?
It was an age—perhaps a few minutes, perhaps hours—before she returned, kneeling at the cliff edge directly above him. This time, she was closer, her eyes locking onto his.
“I’ve broken my hand,” he rasped, words barely scraping from his cracked lips. “Been stuck here since yesterday. I’m dying of thirst. Please, call for help. I... I don’t have much time.”
She gave a quick nod, her face calm. “I won’t take long. Hold on.”
With that, she disappeared again.
He slumped back against the stone, shivering uncontrollably. Odd, he thought. She was Asian, but her accent was refined, crisp, unmistakably British—Oxford, perhaps. What was a woman like her doing here, in this remote and desolate place? And how long would she take to find help?
He knew the landscape well enough. There were no villages or towns in the vicinity. The narrow road to La Milline was a grueling trek. If she returned with help within four hours, he’d consider himself fortunate. But the gnawing cold was relentless, sinking into his bones, reminding him of another night—one spent trapped in a cave called Lankester Hole. His body had barely survived that ordeal; would he survive this?
After what seemed like ten minutes, she appeared again. This time, she wasn’t alone. She was climbing down, deftly maneuvering along a cable with the ease of a seasoned climber. A rucksack, now bulging with supplies, was strapped to her back.
“What the hell!” He barely had the strength to shout, his frustration palpable. “I told you to get help, not come back here alone. How do you expect to pull me up?”
She remained unfazed, placing the rucksack on the ground and calmly unpacking its contents. “My car is parked a quarter-mile from here. I got what I needed. Don’t worry. Getting you up is my job.”
Her movements were precise, methodical. She pulled out a first-aid kit and placed her hand on his forehead, assessing his temperature before feeling his pulse.
“Did you hit your head?” she asked, her voice steady.
He nodded weakly, his initial anger melting away in the face of her calm. “Yes, I blacked out as soon as I fell. It’s all a blur now... I keep passing out. I don’t know what’s real anymore.”
She leaned closer, inspecting his ears, nose, and mouth with a practiced hand.
“No bleeding, no signs of a skull fracture,” she muttered, gently running her fingers over his scalp until they paused just above his left ear, finding a swelling. Her touch was delicate, almost soothing.
“You’ll need an X-ray eventually, but you’re lucky. Your hand seems to have taken the worst of it.” She reached into her bag again and pulled out a sandwich, some raisins, and a small flask. “Eat. You’ll need your strength.”
He devoured the food greedily, watching as she soaked a bandage in some clear liquid and began wrapping his wrist.
“Are you a doctor?” he asked, incredulous.
“No, just someone who learned a few things.” Her smile was fleeting, focused more on the task at hand. “My name’s Ailee, by the way.”
“I’m Park Min Jun,” he replied between bites. “Call me Min Jun.”
She barely acknowledged him, continuing her work with steady hands. “How did you fall?”
“I was out for a walk, staying at an inn in Saint Shelly. I wanted to see the river before it got too late, but I leaned too far over the edge and... well, here I am.”
Ailee’s brow furrowed slightly. “Did you happen to see a car fall into the river yesterday? Ash-colored Fiat, two passengers?”
“No, I... I must’ve been unconscious then. How far did it fall?”
“Far enough,” she replied, her voice tight.
Min Jun shivered, his grip tightening around the warm flask as Ailee’s words hung in the air like a shadow. There was something else going on here—something darker than he realized.
"Regain your strength a bit. We'll think about getting you up after that," Ailee said as she leaned back against the rugged stone wall.
Min Jun could feel the warmth slowly returning to his body, spreading through him like fire as he sipped the strong, brandy-laced coffee. The dull ache in his head started to subside, replaced by a fleeting sense of calm, though his arm throbbed in time with his heartbeat.
"How did you end up here?" he asked, his voice hoarse, eyes squinting at her.
"Drove from La Manille," she replied casually, as though it were the simplest thing in the world. "Parked my car in the jungle a quarter-mile from here. The last few miles are a rough drive, so I had to walk the rest of the way."
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