TW!
Almost all of them. Violence, guns, human trafficking, drug trafficking, etc.
The helicopter came down hard, rotors shrieking as they tore through the canopy. Metal twisted, sparks flew, and the world flipped before slamming into the earth. Shawn dragged himself out, blood streaming down his thigh and ribs. His ears rang so loud he could barely hear the groan of the dying engine.
"Fucking cartel," he spat, stumbling into the jungle shadows.
Pete should have been beside him. His voice still rang clear in Shawn's head, cocky and reckless as always. I know the way, Shawn, relax. Shawn had warned him, told him not to take that damn path, but Pete never listened. Then came the bullets. Then the missile. Then the sky tipping sideways.
"Dumb Pete," Shawn muttered, voice breaking as he limped deeper into the trees. "Told you not to take that route."
His strength gave out at the roots of a ceiba tree. His chest heaved, vision blurring, and before darkness swallowed him, he saw a figure standing above him. Tall, pale even against the green. Black hair, dark eyes that held no panic at all. A man, calm and steady. Then nothing.
Shawn woke gasping, trying to sit up. Pain ripped through his ribs and leg, forcing him back down. His hand reached for a weapon that wasn't there.
"I need to contact my people," he snapped, eyes darting around. "Now. I need to—"
"You move, you bleed more." The voice came low and even in Spanish.
Shawn turned his head. The man from the tree stood beside a small fire, stirring a pot of something warm. His face was sharp, pale skin glowing faintly in the light, his dark eyes calm but unreadable.
"Where am I?" Shawn rasped in English.
The man looked at him for a long moment, then answered in careful English. "Safe. For now."
"And who the hell are you?"
A pause. "José."
Shawn let out a bitter laugh. "That it? Just José? Cute."
The man didn't reply. He lifted a spoon from the pot, cooled it with a breath, and crouched at Shawn's side.
"Eat," he said simply, holding it out.
Shawn sneered. "I can feed myself."
"Then starve."
Shawn scowled, glaring at him. For a moment, he considered spitting something sharp back. But hunger and weakness won. He leaned forward, grimacing as José spooned the stew into his mouth. It was simple, earthy, but it hit the emptiness in his stomach hard.
When the bowl was empty, José set it aside and checked Shawn's bandage, tightening the cloth around his ribs with steady hands.
"Pete's dead," Shawn muttered suddenly, voice cracking despite himself. "He was right there. And I… I couldn't…"
José's touch slowed but didn't stop. "Focus on getting better. When you heal, I will take you to a place with a phone."
Shawn turned his face away, biting down a sob.
The days passed with the same rhythm. José stitched, cleaned, and wrapped his wounds with a patience that irritated Shawn almost as much as it calmed him. When Shawn tried to be snide, José stayed silent. When Shawn refused food, José simply placed the bowl closer until he caved.
One afternoon, José studied him quietly.
"You are not quite white, are you?" he asked at last. "I know you are American, but your eyes… they look different."
Shawn raised a brow, smirking through the ache in his ribs. "Half Japanese. Half American. Blond thanks to my dad. Guess I'm some kind of mix."
José nodded once, thoughtful.
"What," Shawn pressed, grin turning bitter, "did you expect me to say I was pure-blooded white trash? Trust me, I've heard worse."
José only looked at him a moment longer before turning back to his work, silent as ever.
"And what about you?" Shawn asked sharply. "What's an Asian doing in the Amazon forest of Colombia, huh?"
José's face stayed calm. "I am Asian, but I moved to Colombia. I stayed."
"That's it? That's your whole life story?" Shawn scoffed. "You're a terrible liar."
José said nothing, only picked up his knife and began sharpening it slowly. The scrape of steel filled the silence.
Shawn shook his head, letting out a dry laugh. "You're a real piece of work, José."
But that night, as the sound of children's laughter carried faintly from the village, Shawn found himself staring at the fire, thinking about the quiet man who stitched his wounds, fed him, and spoke as if nothing in the world could rattle him.