With the meat of four beasts secured, Shaun finally had the rare luxury of time—time to breathe, to rest, and, for once, to cook not out of necessity, but from a desire to feel normal again. The boar alone, hulking and heavy, promised a full week of hearty meals. The lizards, though sinewy and lean, had surprisingly tender flesh—like the kind you'd find in a delicately prepared cut of venison. Between them, he had enough to survive, but more importantly, enough to live.
What really tipped the scale in his favor, though, was Panda.
Shaun had long suspected the rabbit didn't share his meals out of politeness. Curious, he followed it one morning—quietly, carefully, bare feet padding across the forest floor as he trailed the twitch of its horn and the swish of underbrush disturbed in its wake. It moved with intent, nose flicking side to side, ears rotating constantly. And when it stopped, it wasn't random. It picked from shrubs, scraped roots with precision, nibbled only the tenderest growths at the center of leaves.
Shaun crouched beside the same plants. Some looked alien—fatter, twisted versions of herbs he once knew—but the scent didn't lie. He crushed one between his fingers. Citrus. Strong. Like a hybrid between lime and kaffir. Another gave off the crisp sharpness of thyme, and when he bit into a curled green leaf he'd seen Panda eat, he tasted rosemary. Earthy, piney, bright. He gathered slowly, reverently—just enough for now. His rule: never more than he needed.
By the time he returned to his hilltop shelter, his makeshift woven basket was half full. Bundles of lime-scented leaves, coils of pale mushrooms with undersides as smooth as velvet, rosemary-like stalks wrapped in fibrous threads, and a few gnarled fruit pods the size of walnuts that oozed fragrant sap through their cracked shells.
The rambutan was the final piece. Hanging from twisted trees that jutted like claws through the canopy, they looked menacing—black, orb-like, covered in spines like iron filings. Shaun had to climb halfway up a branch just to snap a few off, taking care not to prick his palms. The fruit inside, however, was still its familiar translucent flesh. Sweet. Cool. Like biting into nature's candy.
He returned to camp and laid out his bounty like a painter before canvas. Cooking wasn't just sustenance—it was a ritual. A memory. A quiet rebellion against the chaos of the world.
Shaun with the boar's cheek meat—a hidden cut, often forgotten, but rich with fat and flavor. He bathed it in water and lime juice, watching the meat blanch pale like snow beneath warm sun. The juice bubbled slightly on contact, lifting away blood and impurities, leaving behind a clean canvas.
Next came the mushrooms. He tore them gently by hand, their texture like damp sponge cake. Over the fire, he melted boar fat on a sharpened stick, letting the golden drips fall into the pan with a soft, satisfying hiss. The mushrooms drank it in like parched earth in rain. Then came a scattering of herbs—woody, citrusy, fragrant—and a final squeeze of lime that hissed when it touched the heat, releasing a bouquet of aromas that drifted through the trees like an invitation, soft and warm, rich but clean.
Panda sat nearby, pretending not to care, but the way its ears perked and its belly twitched betrayed its curiosity.
Then came the meat. Shaun wrapped the cheek in shredded rambutan bark—now stripped of its deadly spines—and buried it in a pit of embers. The coals breathed slow and steady, and the bark blackened, trapping the juices inside like a sealed treasure chest.
The forest quieted as the hours passed. Even the insects seemed to pause, as if the scent alone held dominion.
When Shaun finally cracked the bundle open, the meat shimmered like amber in the dying light. The bark had caramelized into a glossy, mahogany shell. A savory steam spilled into the air—smoke, sugar, citrus, and fire.
He split it in two. One half for him. The other, placed gently in front of Panda.
The rabbit approached cautiously. Its first bite was tentative, but as soon as the flavor hit, all hesitation vanished. It chewed slowly, reverently, as if the meal had reached into some ancient memory and pulled its inner carnivore from it.
Shaun tasted his portion and understood.
The crust crackled under his teeth, breaking like a candy shell, while the inside melted into gelatinous strands of smoky meat that dissolved on his tongue. The rambutan had sweetened and caramelized into something between burnt sugar and charred maple. The lime cut through the richness with bright acidity. Each mouthful was a conversation—between fire and fruit, wildness and memory.
Neither of them spoke. The fire crackled softly nearby. Wind rustled the canopy. Even the jungle, ever wild and watchful, seemed to settle for a moment, soothed by the quiet ritual of two unlikely souls sharing a meal.
And in that small patch of jungle, for a few stolen minutes, it felt like the world hadn't ended after all.