Polly waited a cautious ten minutes longer, until the last of the guards finally drifted off to sleep.
They looked like circus watchmen—unkempt beards, grimy fingernails, frayed hats pulled low over their eyes. Each had a hunting knife at their belt, and, most worryingly, a battered old rifle leaned against a nearby crate.
She could still see the sheen of oil on the barrel, carefully applied to keep it from rusting.
Those tiny, vivid details chilled her to the bone.
Stay calm.
She reminded herself not to dwell on them, to keep walking. The backpack was only a short distance away.
But it was hard. Everything here was so real.
On the wooden table sat the remnants of a meal. Whatever it had been, it now reeked of spoiled meat. A nauseating stench of blood and rot filled the air.
The ground was strewn with stained newspapers, soaked through with grease, and laid out to dry three enormous, grease-slicked bear traps.
Polly had never realized just how big these traps were—longer than her forearm and just as heavy. Like rifles, they required oiling to stay functional.
No hallucination could conjure up detail like this. She really had transmigrated.
That terrifying realization returned in full force.
Polly took a deep breath and forced herself to focus. Keep moving. Don't turn back.
But perhaps because her back was turned to the guards, she couldn't shake the feeling that the moment she glanced over her shoulder, she'd see them wide awake, staring directly at her.
…Darkness and the unknown were fertile soil for the imagination.
She bit back her nerves and reached the backpack. She found the hidden latch and pressed down gently—
Click.
It opened.
She risked a glance behind her. Still asleep.
But the feeling of being watched hadn't gone away. In fact, it was intensifying—an icy, invasive stare that pressed against her spine.
Someone was following her. Their footsteps dragged slightly, unsteady… but methodical.
Her heart pounded. Sweat coated her palms. She nearly dropped the first-aid kit she'd just retrieved.
Then, just as she ducked back into the tent, a hand lunged from the shadows and seized her wrist, slamming her to the ground.
Her back hit the floor with a brutal thud.
Polly gritted her teeth against the pain and looked up—only to meet a pale white mask.
Two hollow eyeholes stared back at her with cold detachment.
—"He's the only one who wears a mask."
It was him. Eric.
A sharp gasp escaped her lips. She tried to wriggle free, but he pressed her down effortlessly.
He stared in silence, his thumb pressing against the artery in her neck. The pressure increased—then abruptly loosened. As if he were weighing the decision of whether or not to kill her.
No time to wonder how someone this badly injured could be so fast or so strong. Polly blurted, "I—I came to help you!"
Silence.
The tent was eerily still.
Eric didn't blink. He just watched.
She wanted to read his eyes, but the mask made it nearly impossible. The longer she looked, the more surreal he seemed—not human, but some strange, unknowable creature.
Swallowing her fear, she forced herself to speak with conviction. "I mean it. I didn't know they'd hurt you like that. I'm sorry."
No reaction.
Instead, he tilted his head and drew a knife.
Polly's mind blanked.
For a terrifying second, her entire skull went cold. Blood roared in her ears. She couldn't even form words.
She'd acted in plenty of horror scenes back in Los Angeles—comedies, dramas, musicals. She'd even played corpses in detective shows.
But those were prop knives. And the bodies never fought back.
Now, every muscle had locked in place. Her face felt numb. Her heart was thundering.
Was he really going to kill her?
Or worse—was he going to cut out her tongue? Stab her throat?
The blade moved closer.
Then, suddenly, his thumb shifted up, hooked beneath her jaw, and forced her mouth open.
—He was really going to slit her throat!
Terror overwhelmed her. She couldn't even scream. She just watched helplessly as he pried her mouth open—only to…
Tap her teeth with the blade?
Wait, what?
He wasn't trying to kill her.
Then what was he doing?
He tapped again, lightly, rhythmically. His eyes, though still unreadable behind the mask, carried a message.
Speak.
The meaning was clear.
Polly collapsed in a limp heap, every joint melting into the floor. Her hands couldn't even hold the first-aid kit anymore.
She gulped a breath and, almost on instinct, began to speak in a cracked, shaking voice:
"I—I'm sorry. I really am. I was jealous… You're talented and smart and I… I couldn't keep up. Nanny always praised you and hit me… I just didn't want to be hurt anymore… I didn't think they'd torture you like that, I swear…"
She'd never delivered a monologue so convincingly in her life—not even during auditions.
"I brought medicine," she added desperately. "It's from my hometown. If you're worried, I'll use it on myself first."
Still, no reply.
Eric said nothing.
Eventually, he released her and pulled her to her feet.
Only then did she get a good look at the tent—Eric's tent. He had deliberately led her here. No wonder he'd acted so boldly; he knew no one else was inside. It was his.
It was small, like hers, but better equipped—a real bed instead of a sleeping bag. No pillow, no blankets, just two scratchy wool throws.
A metal bucket sat at the head of the bed, filled with murky blood. He'd already tried to treat his wounds.
What stood out most was the rack of masks—wooden, paper, porcelain, all painted in eerie detail, each dated in red ink.
One in particular had been drawn with meticulous facial features, making it all the more disturbing.
Just as Polly reached toward the rack, Eric banged the knife handle twice against the bedframe.
She jumped.
Then turned, slowly.
He gestured at her to face him again.
Right. He could talk—ventriloquism and singing were his specialties. He just… chose not to.
Once she obeyed, he sheathed the knife, shrugged off his shirt, and turned around.
Polly's breath caught in her throat.
His back was a mess—skin torn away, raw red muscle exposed beneath, stuck with dirt, grass, and stone.
There was no way he should've survived those injuries.
And yet, here he was. Alive. Moving. Pinning her with one hand.
How?
Forget it. You already transmigrated—logic's off the table.
Polly pulled out a painkiller—ibuprofen. She popped one in her mouth to demonstrate, then handed him another. "It helps with the pain."
Eric studied her a moment, then swallowed the pill dry.
She tried not to react.
Next came the disinfectant swabs. She cleaned her own scrapes first, then met his eyes. "Is this okay?"
A nod.
Polly got to work—scissors, tweezers, hemostatic powder. She'd watched plenty of emergency med tutorials while packing. Now she was putting that knowledge to the test.
Some flesh had already rotted into dark clumps. She had to cut it away before applying the powder.
What shocked her most, though, was how silent he remained. Not even a grunt.
"…Doesn't it hurt?" she asked softly.
No reply.
She fell quiet, focusing on the task.
The ibuprofen helped her too—her back was still sore from being slammed earlier.
As she dusted the hemostatic powder on, the bleeding stopped almost immediately.
His resilience was inhuman.
Even his broken leg hadn't slowed him down much—just a slight limp.
What was he?
Eric, for his part, seemed less interested in his wounds and more fascinated by the English writing on the packaging.
Great. She should've bought local brands.
If he handed the wrapper to the ringmaster, accused her of witchcraft, and got her burned at the stake, she had no one to blame but herself.
"Don't worry," she said quickly. "It's just for stopping bleeding. No side effects. The scab will fall off when it's healed…"
Still no response.
But he handed the wrapper back.
Relief flooded her.
She reached into the kit. One energy bar, one bottle of electrolyte water.
She decided to keep the bar—food was scarce, and she needed rations.
But the water she could spare.
"You lost a lot of blood," she said, offering it. "This will help."
Eric didn't take it.
Polly followed his gaze. At the head of the bed sat two dusty cans of rations—plain and grim-looking. Compared to those, her bright-blue bottle looked like it had been plucked from a sci-fi movie.
"…See? It's safe." She took a sip.
Then crouched, softening her features, trying to appear honest and open. "From today… maybe you can try trusting me. I'll find a way to clear your name… let them know you didn't steal the watch…"
Her voice trailed off.
Eric turned. The mask's eyeholes stared straight through her.
For several seconds, Polly regretted everything. The words, the promises.
She didn't know him—not really. She didn't even know what he looked like.
He could toss her to Mike right now, and no one would stop him.
He was a wild, unpredictable beast. In three whole hours, he hadn't uttered a single word.
And she'd thought she could befriend him?
How foolish.
Polly took a careful step back, preparing to leave.
In a blur, Eric leaned forward, drew his knife, and slammed it into the floor beside her head.
The blade missed her cheek by mere centimeters.
Polly blinked.
She was suddenly very, very grateful for her acting training—particularly her ability to maintain bladder control under pressure.
He didn't say anything.
But she understood.
He didn't believe her.
And he wanted her to shut up—and get out.