??? ????? ?? ??? ????? || ?? ?????

┏ •◦இ•◦ ┓

051

┗ •◦இ•◦ ┛

The forest was silent, save for the rhythmic crunch of boots against dried leaves and the low hum of tension coursing through Stanley Snyder's veins. He weaved between trees with muscle memory guiding his body, but his mind—his mind was racing. Faster than his feet, faster than bullets.

He was panicking. And that scared him more than whatever the hell he was chasing.

Stanley came to a sharp halt in the clearing, inhaling deep and slow. His hand rested lightly on the grip of his rifle, though he wasn't sure which direction he'd need to aim it in.

He let out a half-laugh, half-sigh, frustration bleeding into every breath. "Stan... when do you ever panic?" he muttered under his breath. "This is so unlike you..."

He rubbed a hand over his face and pushed it through his hair, dragging tension with it. "Y/n... what have you actually done to me? I never panic."

But here he was—his nerves frayed and his thoughts bouncing between Y/n, the copy of himself running around, and the possibility that something—someone—had outplayed him.

He forced himself to focus, eyes narrowing as he scanned the area. "Alright... if he's copying me—my behavior, my thinking—then he'd pick a spot far from the ship. Out of sight, but close enough to shoot..." Stanley muttered, calculating. "Tactical but discreet. Just like me."

He shook off the dread curling in his gut. "Xeno... you better be alright wherever you are," he said under his breath.

Stanley set off again, faster now, threading through the trees like a ghost. His breath found rhythm with his stride, everything sharpening to a soldier's edge. He climbed the ridge with practiced ease, knowing exactly where he—the fake Stanley—would go.

The clearing up ahead was still. Too still.

Stanley slowed as he approached the large pine, eyes tracing the curve of the branches. A high vantage point. The exact place he would choose. He planted a hand on the bark and hoisted himself upward, finding footholds without thought. Every muscle tensed as he reached the next thick branch.

Then he saw them.

Max and Carlos.

Tied to the trunk. Gagged. Eyes wide with raw panic.

Stanley's blood ran cold for a beat before action kicked in. "Calm down," he ordered, voice steady as he crouched near them. He cut the cloth binding their mouths, letting them gasp in air like they'd been drowning.

Stanley's sharp gaze studied them. "I'm the real Stanley. Where is that copy of mine?"

His tone dropped, low and lethal.

Max's eyes widened. "W-wait... are you really...?"

Stanley rolled his eyes and stood. "I wouldn't tie you up and leave you here. If I didn't want you around, I'd just leave." He sighed, rubbing his temple. "Can't believe I'm having to explain this."

Carlos coughed. "We don't know where that other Stanley went. He knocked us out or drugged us—whatever it was, everything went black. When we woke up... we were stuck here."

Stanley's fists clenched. So the copy was active. And ahead of him.

"Does that mean Miss is in trouble?!" Carlos asked, alarm spiking in his voice.

Stanley didn't answer at first. He stared off into the trees, jaw tight.

"Probably."

Max looked ready to run already. "What do we do?"