The rain pressed down through the night, a steady, unending drumming on the world above the hollow. Luo Feng lay curled deep within the cramped space, his scales pressed tight against the cool, damp earth, which seemed to leach what little warmth remained in his body. The narrow space left little room to move, every slight shift making a bed of dry leaves crunch and crackle against his underside and the rough, unyielding soil scrape against his sensitive sides.
Drip. Drip.
Water slid from the gnarled, exposed roots that formed the hollow's roof, gathering into heavy, clear drops that fell with a soft, metallic plink near his head. Each one made him flinch, a tiny, involuntary jerk of his body that sent a fresh wave of discomfort through his coiled form. The cloying smell of wet soil and crushed moss filled his nostrils, a sharp and heavy odor that promised decay and stagnation. He flicked his forked tongue out, tasting the damp, mineral-laden air, then let out a low, frustrated hiss that was swallowed by the pressing earth around him.
"Mom."
The word slipped out, soft and small, a fragile human sound utterly alien in the dark, wild space. His chest tightened painfully at its utterance. For a fleeting moment, the jungle disappeared, and he saw only his mother's face, clear and vivid. The way her dark hair framed her warm cheeks, the way her hand once ruffled his head whenever he tried to act tough, her laughter a gentle, familiar music. He remembered the specific warmth of her voice, the particular, gentle cadence she used to call his name from the doorway when he stayed out too long playing in the fading light.
Now, there was only the hollow, damp and cold and unforgiving, a tomb of roots and soil.
His coils shifted uneasily, scraping against the unyielding earthen wall with a dry, rasping whisper. The tight space gave him no comfort, only a constant, grinding reminder of his confinement and vulnerability. He pressed his head lower, trying to physically bury the memory, to push it down into the cold soil beneath him, but it clung stubbornly, a heavy, aching weight in his chest that was harder to bear than any physical burden.
Rustle.
The wind pushed through the dense leaves outside with a long, sighing breath. Luo Feng stiffened, his whole body going rigid with instinctual alarm, but it was only the storm, still claiming the forest as its own. Still, he waited, listening with every fiber of his being, his senses stretched to their limits. Each sound seemed sharper, more defined and threatening within the hollow's confines the gentle brush of branches, the steady, monotonous patter of rain, the distant, low growl of thunder moving away across the hills.
He wished the sound of the rain was gentler, a soothing whisper to lull him. Instead, it was loud, pounding, relentless, a cacophony on the canopy. Every drop seemed to beat directly against his ears, a constant reminder of the world outside his control. He flicked his tongue again, and again, as if some reassurance, some promise of safety, could be found and tasted in the saturated, storm-washed air.
Time dragged on, slow and heavy and saturated with the sound of water. The rain did not ease. Lightning flashed far away, its brief, cold light slipping faintly through the tangled canopy and into the narrow crack of his shelter. For an instant the hollow lit up, every root and clump of soil etched in stark, silver relief, then darkness returned, thicker and more profound than before, a velvet blackness that pressed against his eyes.
His stomach growled, a hollow, empty sound that seemed to echo in the small space. Hunger twisted inside him, a deep and painful gnawing that had become a constant companion. The relentless rain made it worse, a taunting reminder of his helplessness and isolation. Hunting was impossible in such a storm. The ground outside would be a slick, treacherous morass, every movement would be noisy and labored, and other predators, hungrier and more patient, would be listening. He shifted his coils, pressing tighter against himself in a futile attempt to quell the ache, his eyes half-closed in weary resignation.
"Tch."
He hissed, a sharp exhalation of pure annoyance. The hollow was cramped, damp, and rough, every surface an irritation, yet it was undeniably safer than the open forest where death waited in the form of claws and teeth. He told himself that, repeating the cold logic in his mind again and again, a silent mantra until his body grew still, forced into a temporary, uneasy acceptance of its prison.
The rain kept falling, a force of nature immense and indifferent to his suffering.
Plink. Plink.
Drops struck the broad, waxy leaves above. A persistent few found their way through the labyrinth of roots, landing cold and sudden against his scales. He twitched each time, a reflex he could not control, but there was no escape from the pervasive dampness. The smell of wet leaves and rotting wood filled his nose, thick and earthy, almost suffocating in its intensity, the very scent of the wild claiming him.
He tried to distract himself, forcing his mind away from the immediate, gripping pangs of hunger and the chill damp. He remembered warmth. A soft bed with clean sheets. A quiet room that smelled faintly of laundry detergent and sunlight. A comforting, indistinct hum of voices drifting from another room. Home. The thought made his throat tighten impossibly. "Mom," he whispered again, lower this time, the word almost voiceless, just a shape made by breath.
The memory was sharper this time, more vivid and therefore more cruel. He could almost feel the softness of a worn blanket against his skin, the faint, rhythmic buzz of a ceiling fan turning lazily above. He saw a bowl of white rice steaming on a wooden table, and heard the familiar, comforting sound of chopsticks lightly clattering. His chest ached with a profound, desolate loneliness. Why here. Why like this. He did not understand the reason for his plight, the mechanics of this terrible transition.
He pressed himself tighter into the hollow as though he could physically hide from the painful thought, make himself small enough to disappear. His scales rasped against rough bark and hard soil, the sensation grounding him cruelly in the present reality. The damp, the smell, the claustrophobic tightness, none of it belonged to the world he once knew. Yet it was the only world he had now, a world of instinct and fear.
His eyes grew heavy, his lids drooping as exhaustion finally overrode anxiety. The endless, monotonous rhythm of the storm pulled at his consciousness, its steady, dull beat a lullaby of despair. His head lowered, finally coming to rest on the cool, moist soil. His body loosened its tight coil without him realizing it, yielding to a deep, bone-tired fatigue. The hollow stayed dark, a pocket of perpetual night within the rainy world. His breaths grew slow and deep and even.
He did not know when he finally fell asleep, his consciousness slipping away into dreams of warmth and light.
The night passed, slow and waterlogged.
When he opened his eyes again, a pale, grey light pressed faintly through the crack, illuminating motes of dust and moisture hanging in the air. Morning. The storm had ended, leaving a battered, washed-clean world in its wake. The jungle smelled sharp and fresh, every leaf and fern blade heavy with beads of water, each one a perfect lens. Birds had begun to call again, their voices tentative and broken, uneven after the long, oppressive silence of the night.
Luo Feng flicked his tongue, tasting the clean, damp air, analyzing its components for threat or opportunity. He stayed completely still for a long time, his body coiled into a spring, waiting. His muscles ached from a night of pressing against the hard, unforgiving hollow walls, but he did not move. Hunger clawed at him, sharper and more insistent now that the immediate danger had passed, but his ingrained caution was stronger, a powerful leash on his impulses.
"Safe," he muttered softly, the question hanging in the still, dripping air.
No answer came, only the soft, intermittent drip of water falling from the high canopy, a peaceful sound that did nothing to ease his tension.
He inched forward, his scales rasping against the damp earth wall with a gritty sound. His head pushed out slightly, eyes scanning the forest with a slow, careful intensity, missing no detail. Sunlight filtered weakly through the dense lattice of leaves, shining on dripping branches and the countless small pools of water that littered the dark soil like shattered mirrors.
The wildcat was gone. There was no sign of its tawny fur, its heavy paw prints washed away by the rain. Yet he did not trust the quiet. The silence itself felt fragile, deceptive, like a thin sheet of ice over deep, dark water.
The forest after the rain was alive, but in a different, more cautious way. Fat drops still fell from high leaves, splashing into muddy pools with soft, hollow plops. Frogs croaked from somewhere unseen, their calls loud and rhythmic in the new dampness, claiming their territory. Insects buzzed lazily, their wings still heavy with moisture, their movements sluggish and slow. The air itself was heavier, wetter, clinging to his scales like a cold, unwelcome film.
He lingered at the hollow's mouth, his tongue flicking out again and again, testing the air for any hidden threat, any trace of musk or malice. The gnawing hunger in his belly urged him forward, a primal demand, but the vivid, searing memory of the chase pulled him back. He could almost feel the ghost of claws on his back, a hot rush of fear in his veins. His eyes narrowed, scanning the same patch of ferns over and over, looking for the shape that did not belong.
Minutes stretched on, becoming many. He did not move. The hollow behind him was suffocating, a dark and cramped tomb, but the forest ahead was a dangerous, open gamble where the odds were never in his favor. His body trembled with the internal push and pull of instinct. He wanted to hunt, to fill the void in his stomach, to feel the strength of a meal. He wanted to live, not just hide. But he wanted to survive more than anything.
He shifted his weight slightly, testing the soil just outside the entrance. It was slick with water, soft and yielding beneath his scales. Not ideal for a quick escape, for the sudden, explosive flight he might need. A single slip here, a moment of lost traction, could mean a swift and final death. He drew back again, his body tightening into a defensive, anxious coil.
"Tch," he hissed quietly, the sound full of a frustrated impotence.
His belly growled louder this time, the sound hollow and painfully urgent, a physical cramp of need. His mind drifted back to home again, to food that was never this hard to find, to meals that were always waiting on a table, even if they were simple. His chest squeezed with a painful, yearning longing. His throat worked, swallowing nothing, but no sound came out this time.
The forest remained quiet except for the peaceful, indifferent dripping of water, a taunting melody of normalcy.
Time passed. The sun rose higher, though the thick canopy made it hard to tell, the light a diffuse, green glow. Light filtered down in scattered, dappled patches, turning falling droplets into tiny, fleeting sparks of gold before they vanished into the dark earth. Small, green lizards darted out from their hiding places, chasing after weakened, waterlogged insects. A lone bird shook itself violently on a low branch, sending a shower of diamond-like water sparkling into the air.
Luo Feng watched it all in silence, a spectator in his own drama of survival, a prisoner of his own caution. His patience was long, a necessary trait for his kind, but the relentless, grinding hunger made it thin and brittle. His coils shifted restlessly, scraping the walls of the hollow once more. He flicked his tongue one more time, and this time he caught the faintest, most tantalizing trace of small prey nearby, the scent-marker of a frog or perhaps a mouse stirring from its shelter.
His head lifted slightly, his focus sharpening, his body tensing with potential energy. The urge to strike, to finally move, to act, was strong now, a physical pull in his muscles. Yet still he lingered at the edge, a creature of caution forged and tempered by recent, searing terror.
"Mom," he whispered again, almost without realizing he had spoken. The word felt profoundly out of place here, fragile and human against the vast, uncaring, wild backdrop. But he could not stop it from coming.
The sound, however, steadied him somehow. It reminded him that he was not only what the forest demanded of him, not just a snake driven solely by fear and hunger. He was, or had been, something more. He breathed slower, his body easing fractionally, the tension releasing for a single heartbeat, before tightening again in a reflexive spasm as the wind rustled a nearby cluster of leaves, a sound too much like a predator's approach.
He stayed. Watching. Listening. Waiting.
The hunt would come. But not yet.