9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡa0YwMrLstkRAINFOREST MAIN CAMP—
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Dusk settles over the rainforest like a bruise. The canopy drips steadily, each drop tapping the earth with the soft, rhythmic patience of grief. Mist curls between the roots and tree trunks, pale and ghostlike. The air is thick, wet, and heavy — as if the forest itself is mourning with them. The clearing behind the Village is quiet except for shovels sinking into soft earth.
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Twenty‑five graves.
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Twenty‑five friends.
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Twenty‑five holes carved into the heart of the camp.
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The gang works in silence. Metro stands shoulder‑to‑shoulder with Blake, both of them mud‑splattered, exhausted, hollow‑eyed. Paul and the smiths dig the deeper graves, their movements slow and mechanical. Gregory kneels beside each wrapped body, tying the final knots with trembling hands.
Lilly moves between the families, her touch gentle, though her own eyes are red. The maidens cry openly, clutching their children to their skirts.
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Some children cry too. Others just stare — too young to understand, too old to forget.
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Time passes.
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The sun sinks lower and the rainforest darkens. The rain softens but never stops. The sound of shovels grows slower… softer… until it becomes part of the rain. One by one, the bodies are lowered. Wrapped in cloth. Laid with care. Covered by hands that loved them. The first handfuls of dirt fall with soft thuds.
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Then more.
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Then more.
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The sons of the fallen stand nearby — some crying, some silent, some trying to be strong.
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As the minutes pass, their sobs soften, but never disappear. They cling to their mothers, to each other, to anything that feels steady. Metro wipes rain from his face, but it doesn’t matter — the tears blend with the storm. Blake’s hands shake as he presses the last mound of dirt flat.
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Paul stands with his head bowed, shoulders trembling. Gregory whispers a prayer under his breath, voice cracking.
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No one speaks.
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The rainforest hums softly — a low, mournful drone of insects and dripping leaves. When the last grave is filled, the gang stands together in a long line, facing the row of mounds. Lanterns are lit. Their warm glow flickers against the rain. The maidens sing a quiet mourning song — shaky, broken, but beautiful.
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Children cling to their skirts.
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The men stand behind them, heads bowed. The forest listens.The rain and wind whispering through everyone's frames.
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—TINY TREE HOUSE—
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The sun has long slipped beneath the horizon.
Metro sits alone in his steaming wooden tub, high in the branches of his tree‑house cottage. The candles around him flicker in the wind, their flames bending and stretching like they were trying to reach him. His ribs are wrapped in tight white bandages.
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His head hangs low.
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He's survived the battle…
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but pieces of him hasnt.
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Tears fall silently, rippling the water in soft concentric circles.
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He doesn't sob loudly — he doesn’t have the strength.
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He just… breaks.
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Quietly.
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Completely.
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Metro hears a vine snap outside, a soft slithering sound.
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He doesn’t look up.
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Rose steps onto the wooden deck, framed by the night breeze. She wears a simple white dress, her hair tied back, her expression fierce and determined — until she sees him.
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Her eyes soften instantly.
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Watery.
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Shaken.
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She steps inside softly. Without a word, she reaches behind her head and pulls her tie free. Her long hair falls over her shoulders, catching the candlelight. Her dress flutters in the wind.
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Metro keeps his head down, shoulders shaking, trying to breathe through the grief that refuses to loosen up.
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Rose moves slowly behind him.
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She dips one toe into the steaming water, submerging her foot.
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Then her other leg.
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She kneels behind him, her knees touching the wooden floor, her breath warm against his shoulder.
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Metro doesn't look at her.
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He can’t.
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But he's too broken to hide any emotion.
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Too tired to pretend.
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Rose reaches for a sponge.
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She dips it in the water and presses it gently to the back of his neck. Metro inhales sharply — not from pain, but from the shock of being touched with tenderness.
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She washes his shoulders.
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His back.
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His chest.
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Her fingers glow faintly — a soft, healing warmth. Metro’s breathing steadies itself.
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Rose lifts herself behind him and pours oil over his head, letting it run through his hair. Her fingers following the patterns of his scalp.
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The candles flicker and the curtains sway.
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The world outside muffles into distant cries and wind.
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—It blows the sheet over the doorframe.
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They both look up for a moment —then Metro lowers his head again, silent, trembling.
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Rose hums.
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A soft, sacred melody.
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Metro breaks again. His shoulders a little tense. His breath hitches. He tries to hide it — but he can't.
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Rose stops humming, startled by his pain.
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Unsure.
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Afraid shes doing something wrong.
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She looks at him — really looks — and continues washing him, gentler than before. She moves beside him, sitting close enough that their arms brush. She washes his chin, her fingers trembling.
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Metro lifts his head.
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And smiles.
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A small, fragile, genuine smile.
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Rose gasps softly.
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Her breath catches.
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Her eyes widened — overwhelmed by how much she feels in the moment. Metro’s eyes glisten with gratitude.
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With relief.
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With something deeper.
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Rose’s lips part.
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A slow, smile forms.
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Metro leans in.
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Rose meets him halfway.
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Their kiss is soft.
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Slow.
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A moment suspended in the quiet storm of grief and healing. When they part, Metro doesn't look at her — he looks out the window, toward the bookshelf, toward the world he's still trying to understand. Rose smirks through her watered eyes. She wraps her arms around his neck, kneeling beside him, and rest her head on him.
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Scene fades—
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and then Add to home screen.