The Flight of the Wounded

She moved as quickly as she could, one hand pressed against her wounds, trying to disappear into the trees.

The wound wasn’t physical. There was no blood soaking through her shirt, no jagged tear in her skin. But it felt like it. It felt like a hole had been punched through her sternum, leaving a cavity that whistled with every breath. It was the wound of being known. Of being seen not as the hero, not as the villain, but as the messy, contradictory, broken human in between.

And it hurt. God, it hurt.

The Client’s voice still echoed in her ears, smooth and oily, promising ruin, promising exposure, promising the return of the cage. “I can make sure your family knows what you really are.”

The threat should have paralyzed her. It should have sent her running back to the car, back to the city, back to the safety of the lie. But instead, it had triggered something older. Something primal.

Run.

Not away from him. But away from the shame. Away from the light that had just exploded inside her, leaving her raw and exposed. Away from the truth that was too bright to look at directly.

She stumbled over roots, her boots slipping in the mud. Branches whipped at her face, scratching her cheeks, tearing at her hair. She didn’t care. She just wanted to be hidden. She wanted the darkness of the canopy to swallow her whole. She wanted to be invisible again.

Because invisibility was safe. Invisibility meant no one could judge you. No one could hurt you. No one could see the crack in the armor.

But she wasn’t invisible anymore. The rainbow blast had stripped that away. She was glowing. A beacon in the dark. And she couldn’t turn it off.

She pressed her hand harder against her chest, as if she could physically hold the light in, keep it from spilling out, keep it from giving away her position. But the light leaked through her fingers, casting long, strange shadows on the forest floor.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trying to escape.

She heard footsteps behind her. Heavy. Deliberate. The crunch of expensive shoes on wet leaves. He was following. Of course he was. Men like him didn’t let go of their toys. They didn’t let go of their secrets. They didn’t let go of their power.

"Stop!" he called out. His voice was closer now. Angrier. "You can’t run from this, Saransh! You signed the contract! You took the money! You’re complicit!"

I know, she thought. I know.

But knowing didn’t stop the fear. Knowing didn’t stop the instinct to flee.

She pushed deeper into the woods, where the trees grew thick and tangled, where the light barely penetrated. She found a hollow beneath the roots of an ancient banyan tree, a dark, damp cave of earth and wood. She crawled into it, pulling her knees to her chest, curling into a ball.

The smallest shape possible.

She held her breath. Closed her eyes. Pressed her hands over her ears.

Don’t see me. Don’t see me. Don’t see me.

The footsteps stopped nearby. She heard him breathing. Heavy. Frustrated.

"I know you’re here," he said. "Come out. We can fix this. I can protect you. But you have to come out."

Protect her. The word tasted like ash. He didn’t want to protect her. He wanted to control her. He wanted to put her back in the box. Back in the role. Back in the silence.

She shook her head. Tears streamed down her face, hot and silent.

I can’t, she thought. I can’t go back.

But she couldn’t stay here either. The hollow was cold. The dirt was damp. The darkness was suffocating. And the light in her chest was burning brighter, demanding to be let out.

She realized then that she couldn’t hide. Not from him. Not from herself. Not from the truth.

The wound wasn’t something to be covered. It was something to be healed. And healing required air. It required light. It required presence.

She took a deep breath. The air was thin in the hollow, stale and old.

She looked at her hands. Still glowing. Still bright.

I am here, the light said. And I am not hiding.

She uncurled her legs. Stood up. Crawled out of the hollow.

The Client was standing ten feet away, his phone raised, his face twisted in anger.

"You’re making a mistake," he spat.

"No," she said. Her voice was weak, but steady. "I’m finally making the right choice."

She walked past him. Not running. Not hiding. Just walking.

Toward the village. Toward the truth. Toward the healing.

The wound still hurt. But it was hers. And she was ready to carry it.