The Culinary Institute of America's cafeteria was not a cafeteria in the traditional sense. It was a laboratory, a stage, a battleground where the next generation of chefs honed their craft under the watchful eyes of instructors and the discerning palates of their peers. The air hummed with the clatter of pans, the hiss of steam, and the low murmur of critique. The scent of seared scallops, roasted garlic, and freshly baked bread mingled into a symphony of aromas that could make even the most jumbled morning feel like a Michelin-starred dream to most visitors.

  To Ethan Hayes, it was Tuesday. He was seated at a corner table, hunched forward with both elbows before him as he tapped frustratedly on his phone. The pixelated world of Pokémon Emerald unfolded before him, a nostalgic escape from the relentless expectation of precision each day of classes exacted from him. His chef's jacket — crisp white with the institute's emblem stitched proudly over the heart — was flecked with a smudge of hollandaise from the morning's classes. He knew he'd be reamed for the stain in his next class, but he still had a few hours to clean up before he had to depart.

  A plate of coq au vin sat half-finished in front of him, the rich red wine sauce glistening under the cafeteria's warm light. It was good — damn good, actually — but Ethan's attention was divided. His Mudkip was just a few inches away from winning him his first badge of the playthrough, and he wasn't about to let a perfectly braised chicken leg distract him from victory.

  "You know, most people use their lunch breaks to, I don't know, relax," a voice drawled from above. Ethan glanced up to see Claire Faulkner, her dark hair pulled into a no-nonsense ponytail, her own chef's jacket immaculate save for a faint dusting of flour on one sleeve. She slid into the seat across from him, balancing a bowl of miso ramen that smelled like heaven in a porcelain bowl.

  "Relaxing is subjective," Ethan replied, not looking up from his phone. "This is me relaxing. Besides, Roxanne's due for a thrashing in," — he squinted at the screen — "approximately five turns. Can't let my team down."

  Claire snorted, stirring her ramen with a pair of chopsticks. "You're such a dork. Instant noodles take more skill than that game."

  "Says the person who cried when her soufflé collapsed yesterday," Ethan shot back, finally pausing the game to spear a piece of chicken with his fork. "At least my monsters don't deflate if you look at them wrong."

  Claire rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress a grin. "Touché. But seriously, don't you have, like, a million things to do before your externship tomorrow? I heard you're working the morning shift at Marée again. That's a big deal."

  Ethan's expression sobered slightly. "Yeah, I'm on the lobster station this time. Chef Laurent wants me to get a feel for selecting wild ones before service. Apparently, there's an art to it." He shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant, but the edge in his voice betrayed his nerves. Le Marée was one of the most prestigious seafood restaurants in the city, and the thought of screwing up in front of Chef Laurent — a man who could fillet a fish with the precision of a surgeon and the temper of a storm — was enough to make his stomach churn.

  Claire raised an eyebrow. "Lobster duty, huh? Sounds like a real shell of a time."

  Ethan groaned, pointing his fork at her. "That was terrible. You should be ashamed."

  "Says the guy who named his Mudkip 'Bisque'," Claire retorted, smirking. "Face it, Hayes. You're a walking cliché."

  Ethan opened his mouth to argue, but the cafeteria's overhead clock caught his eye. 1:15 PM. He had a pastry class in forty-five minutes, and he still needed to review his notes on laminated dough. With a sigh, he pocketed his phone and shoveled the last bite of food into his mouth. "Yeah, well, this cliché has layers to perfect. Like a croissant, flaky but brilliant."

  Claire laughed, waving him off as he stood and grabbed his tray. "Good luck, Bisque Boy. Try not to drown in the lobster tank tomorrow."

  Ethan shot her a mock salute, his grin returning. "Thanks, Claire. I’ll send you a postcard from the bottom of the ocean."

  As he walked away, the cacophony of the cafeteria almost followed him — the clink of silverware, the din of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter always felt like it clung to him like mist. It faded, though, like it always did, as he walked to the rest of his day.

  The next morning came quickly, wrapped in the briny air of the coast, and with it, the sharp tang of sea salt and nerves. Ethan found himself standing outside Le Marée, knife roll in hand, heart steadying against the gentle pulse of waves kissing the docks. He'd been ushered unceremoniously through the restaurant, all its airs of high-class dining brushed aside in favor of the brutal efficiency of a kitchen preparing to awaken. Before that could happen, though, he had to join the restaurants' fishermen - the very same responsible for their world-famous "same-day catch" menu - on their morning trawl.

  The boat was smaller than he'd expected, a weathered vessel named La Sirène that creaked with the weight of years and saltwater. Its deck was a chaotic mosaic of coiled ropes, stacked crates, and the faint, lingering scent of fish. The fishermen, a grizzled crew of three, greeted him with nods that were more acknowledgement than welcome. Their faces were carved by the sea, lined with the intensity of regular work against the waves. One of them, a burly man with a beard that seemed to defy gravity, handed him a thick rubber apron and a pair of gloves.

  "You'll wan' these," the man grunted, his voice rough as sandpaper. "'less you wanna smell like bait for th' rest of the day."

  Ethan nodded, slipping the apron over his chef's jacket and pulling on the gloves. He felt out of place - he belonged in the kitchen, not on a boat - but he squared his shoulders and tried to keep up with the action. Chef Laurent would be inspecting his selections personally once he returned, and he wasn't too keen on disappointing the man.

  The boat's engine roared to life, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through the deck and into his bones. As they pulled away from the dock, the city skyline shrinking behind them, Ethan gripped the railing and took a deep breath. The air was cold and sharp, filling his lungs with the promise of a morning spent deep-sea fishing.

  The fishermen worked with a rhythm born of years of repetition, their movements somehow fluid despite their stiff statures. Ethan watched as they baited hooks, checked nets, and exchanged terse words in a language that seemed half-gesture, half-grunt. He tried to help where he could, but his inexperience was glaring. His hands fumbled with the knots, and he nearly lost a glove to the greedy pull of the ocean.

  "Firs' time out this far, kid?" one of the fishermen asked with a smirk.

  "Is it that obvious?" Ethan replied, forcing a laugh.

  The man chuckled, a sound like gravel tumbling down a hill. "You'll get the hang of it. Jus' don' fall in. Water's colder than it looks."

  Ethan nodded, his gaze drifting to the dark, churning waves. The ocean was a living thing, vast and unknowable, and for a moment, he felt a surge of unease. But then the first of the traps and nets were hauled aboard, spilling their glittering cargo onto the deck, and his apprehension was forgotten in the rush of adrenaline.

  The catch was a kaleidoscope of color and life — silvery fish with scales that caught the morning light, crabs scuttling sideways in defiance, and, of course, lobsters. Their dark shells gleamed like polished obsidian, their claws swiftly bound with rubber bands to keep them from wreaking havoc. Ethan crouched beside the pile, his studious training kicking in as he examined the lobsters with a critical eye. He looked for the signs Chef Laurent had drilled into him: the firmness of the shell, the liveliness of the antennae, the weight in his hand.

  "This one's good," he muttered to himself, holding up a particularly robust specimen. "But this one..." He frowned, setting aside a lobster that seemed lethargic, its movements sluggish. "Not so much."

  The fishermen watched him with a mixture of amusement and approval. “Ya got a good eye!" the bearded man said. "Most newbies can't tell the difference."

  Ethan smiled, a flicker of pride warming him despite the chill in the air. "Thanks. I've been studying."

  The morning passed in a blur of activity, the deck alive with the sounds of clattering shells and shouted instructions. Ethan's hands grew sore from handling the catch even despite the gloves, but he didn't mind. There was something exhilarating about being so close to the source of his craft, about experiencing what it took to source Le Marée's legendary menu.

  Ethan leaned over the side, trying to get a better look at a particularly large lobster still in its trap, and then suddenly all he saw was the open sky. His foot slipped on the wet deck and tumbled over the railing, the world around him spinning in a dizzying rush of sky and sea.

  The cold arced through his nerves, stealing the breath from his lungs and turning his limbs to lead. He flailed as the waves closed over his head and the current tore at his clothing. He shouted, but the wind and waves swallowed his voice before it could reach the boat as it steadily shrank further and further into the distance.

  The first gasp of water hit his lungs like a sledgehammer, brutal and unrelenting. The thick, salty sludge of seawater that clawed its way down his throat filled him with a searing, acidic fire. Ethan gagged, his body convulsing as it tried to expel the intrusion, but the water only came rushing back in, colder and heavier than before. His chest heaved, desperate for air, but there was none to be found. Just the endless, suffocating weight of the sea and the distant, fading sound of the boat leaving him behind.

  His mind raced with panic and disbelief. "This can't be happening. This can't be happening." The words looped in his head, a desperate mantra as he fought to keep his head above water. His chef's jacket, once a symbol of pride, now felt like an anchor, the heavy fabric clinging to him and pulling him deeper. He clawed at the buttons, his numb fingers fumbling, but the water was too much, too fast. The jacket stayed on, a cruel reminder of the life he’d been living just moments ago.

  He surfaced again, coughing up seawater that burned his throat and nose. The boat was a distant speck now, its outline blurred by the spray and the tears stinging his eyes. He shouted, his voice raw and desperate, but the wind tore the sound away before it could even reach his own ears. The ocean didn't care. It never did.

  His muscles screamed as he treaded water, each movement slower and more labored than the last. His legs felt like lead, his arms like they were made of stone. The cold was seeping into his bones, sapping his strength, but he couldn't stop. He couldn't give up. Not yet.

  Memories flashed through his mind, disjointed and fleeting. The Culinary Institute's cafeteria, the smell of the day's lunch and Claire's teasing grin. He thought of his parents, of the pride in their eyes when he'd told them about his externship at Le Marée. He thought of Chef Laurent, of the way the man's voice could cut through the chaos of a kitchen like a knife through butter. He thought of all the things he hadn't done yet, all the dishes he had yet to try cooking, all the places he hadn't seen. He saw Claire's face, her teasing grin, her words echoing in his mind: "Try not to drown in the lobster tank tomorrow."

  The irony wasn't lost on him, even as his consciousness began to slip away. He wanted to laugh, to scream, to do anything but drown, but his body was no longer his to command. It was a puppet, its strings cut, its movements slow and jerky as it surrendered to the inevitable.

  His legs stopped moving first, too heavy to lift, too numb to feel. His arms followed, the motions growing slower and more erratic until they were just flailing, useless against the pull of the waves. He tried to kick, to push himself toward the surface, but his body wouldn't obey. The water closed over his head again, and this time, he didn't have the strength to fight it.

  He was sinking now, the light above him growing dimmer as the depths swallowed him whole. His lungs burned, his chest tight as it fought the water forcing its way down his throat, but he held on, clinging to the last shreds of his willpower. He wasn't ready. He wasn't ready to let go.

  But the ocean didn't care about readiness. It didn't care about dreams or regrets or unfinished business. It simply took.

  Ethan's vision blurred, the edges of his consciousness fraying. He reached for the surface one last time, his fingers barely breaking the surface of the water, but it was too far away. Too far. His body gave out, his muscles finally surrendering to the cold and the weight and the endless, crushing dark.

  And then, there was nothing.

  Ethan felt the grit of sand against his cheek, coarse and unyielding, pressing into his skin like a thousand tiny needles. His mouth tasted of salt and something metallic, a bitter tang that clung to his tongue and throat. His body felt heavy, impossibly heavy, as if the ocean had followed him onto the shore and was still pressing down on him, refusing to let go. He groaned, a low, guttural sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him, and tried to move. His limbs responded sluggishly, like they were made of wet clay, and he could only manage to shift his head slightly, his face still half-buried in the sand.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The world came back to him in fragments. The sound of waves, gentle and rhythmic, lapping at the shore. The warmth of the sun on his back, soothing and insistent. The smell of salt and seaweed, sharp and briny, filling his nostrils. He blinked, his vision blurry and unfocused, and saw nothing but sand stretching out in front of him, golden and endless. He tried to remember how he'd gotten there, blearily shuffling through his recent memories in search of answers.

  He pushed himself up onto his elbows, his arms trembling with the effort, and spat out a mouthful of sand. His throat burned, raw and scratchy, and he coughed, the sound harsh and grating in the quiet mid-morning air. He sat back on his heels, his head spinning, and looked around. The beach was empty, the only signs of life the gentle sway of the waves and the distant cry of a bird. The sun hung high in the sky, casting warm, harsh light on the beach, and the breeze was cool and gentle.

  For a moment, he felt a strange sense of peace... and then, like a dam breaking, the memories came flooding back.

  The boat. The water. The cold. The struggle. The drowning.

  His stomach heaved, and he doubled over, retching violently. Saltwater and bile spilled onto the sand, the acrid taste burning his throat and nose. His body convulsed, his muscles clenching and trembling as he vomited again and again, until there was nothing left but dry heaves and the taste of despair. He gasped for air, his chest heaving, and clutched at his stomach, his fingers digging into his sides as if he could physically hold himself together.

  The sound of the waves filled him with bone-deep fear. Each gentle lap against the shore made him remember his lungs filling with water, the crushing pressure, the slow, encroaching darkness around his vision. He scrambled to his feet, his legs wobbling beneath him, and stumbled toward the treeline, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. The sand shifted under his feet, slowing him down, and he fell to his knees more than once, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. He had to get away from the water, away from the memories, away from the thing that had almost killed him. It had killed him.

  He reached the treeline and collapsed against the trunk of a tall, slender tree, his chest heaving, his heart pounding in his ears. He pressed his forehead against the rough bark, trying to steady himself, but the panic was still there, coiling in his chest. He closed his eyes, willing himself to breathe, to think, to make sense of what had happened.

  And then, a sound broke through the storm.

  A soft, melodic chirp, high and clear, like the tinkling of a bell. Ethan froze, his breath catching in his throat, and slowly turned his head. Above him, perched on a low branch, was a blue-and-white bird with a bright red chest. It tilted its head, its beady black eyes regarding him with curiosity, and let out another chirp, this one louder and more insistent.

  Ethan stared at it, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. It wasn't a bird. It was a Taillow. A Pokémon. A real, living, breathing Pokémon.

  His breath hitched, and he felt a strange mix of disbelief and wonder wash over him. He reached out a trembling hand, as if to touch it, but the Taillow flitted away, its wings beating the air with a soft whoosh. It landed on a higher branch, its tail feathers twitching, and let out another chirp, this one almost teasing.

  Ethan slumped back against the tree, his legs giving out beneath him. He sat there, staring up at the bird, his mind racing. This wasn’t possible. It couldn't be possible. And yet, here he was, staring with mouth agape at a Taillow chirping at him from the trees. As if searching for something to contradict his senses, he turned his head to inspect the rest of his surroundings. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a Shroomish, squat and pale-green, absorbing sunlight just outside the treeline. A Wurmple clung to a leaf just nearby, industriously nibbling away.

  "What... the fuck..." muttered Ethan.

  When the universe didn't answer, he stood up and let out a brine-tinged sigh. His eyes passed over the ocean once again, sending a shudder through his whole body, but he shoved it down. "I'll... I'm alive", he reassured himself. He wasn't about to forget... all of what had just happened, but the sheer shock of finding himself face-to-face with Pokémon in the flesh kept his panic at bay.

  Ethan stood there for a moment, his legs still unsteady beneath him, his mind reeling. The ocean loomed behind him, its waves now a distant murmur, but he refused to look back at it. Instead, he focused on the creatures before him. They were so... ordinary. So real. He'd seen them a thousand times before, but only on a screen, only in pixels and animations. Now, they were here, living and breathing, and their sheer presence was overwhelming.

  He took a hesitant step forward. The Shroomish didn't seem to notice him, its beady eyes half-closed as it basked in the warmth. The Wurmple, however, paused its chewing and tilted its head, its tiny antennae twitching in his direction. For a moment, Ethan felt like he was being studied, like the little bug Pokémon was sizing him up. He froze, unsure of what to do, but the Wurmple quickly lost interest and went back to its leaf, leaving him standing there like an idiot.

  "Okay," Ethan muttered to himself, running a hand through his damp, sand-crusted hair. "Okay. This is... this is happening. I’m here. I'm alive. And... this is Hoenn. Somehow."

  The words felt strange coming out of his mouth, like they belonged to someone else. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ground himself, but the surreal feeling refused to fade. He was standing in a world he'd only ever dreamed of, a world he'd spent countless hours exploring through a screen. And now... now he was here. The thought was equal parts exhilarating and terrifying.

  He glanced down at himself, taking stock of his appearance. His chef's jacket was still clinging to him, soaked through and crusted with sand, but it was intact. He gave a little start as his mental inventory reached his phone. "Shit!" he exclaimed as he quickly emptied the contents of his pockets into the grass at the edge of the beach. With a quick swipe he found his smartphone and clicked it on, only to be greeted with a dim but clear message:

  Moisture detected in the charging port.

  A deep sigh of relief escaped him. That device was his tether, a tangible link to where he came from - and also his record of the world he'd just found himself in. If he could keep it working, it might give him an advantage that he'd need to survive... In this strange yet familiar world, it might be his only advantage. If he could keep it working, if he could find a way to charge it...

  He took a deep breath, the salty air filling his lungs, and turned his attention to the treeline. The woods stretched out before him, dense and inviting, the sunlight filtering through the leaves in dappled patterns. Somewhere in there, he knew, was Petalburg City. Or at least, there should be. If this was Hoenn — and he was increasingly certain it was — then Petalburg was his best bet for finding help. Or answers. Or... something.

  But first, he needed to get his bearings. And maybe find some fresh water. His throat was still raw from the seawater, and the taste of salt and bile lingered in his mouth. He glanced around, his eyes scanning the beach for anything useful, but all he saw was sand, driftwood, and the occasional shell. No sign of civilization. No sign of people.

  Just him, the Pokémon, and the endless expanse of the ocean.

  He sighed again, running a hand over his face, and turned back toward the woods. The Taillow was still perched in the tree, watching him with what he could only describe as mild amusement. It chirped again, the sound almost mocking, and Ethan couldn't help but laugh. It was a short, breathless laugh, more out of disbelief than anything else, but it felt good. It felt human.

  "Alright, buddy," he said, looking up at the Taillow. "Guess you're my welcoming committee. Uh... you wouldn't happen to know where I can find some water, would you? Preferably not the salty kind?"

  His voice came out scratchy and hoarse, each word scraping against his throat like sandpaper. The bird tilted its head, as if considering his words, and then squawked a cry that Ethan could generously interpret as sounding like its name. It flicked its beak backward, as if signaling for him to follow, and then took off deeper into the woods.

  Ethan hesitated for a moment, glancing back at the ocean one last time. The waves were calm now, almost mocking in their serenity, but the sight still sent a shiver down his spine. He shook his head, forcing himself to focus, and followed his guide into the trees.

  The woods were dense, with sunlight filtering through the canopy in dappled patterns that danced across the forest floor. The air was thick with the scent of earth and greenery, and the sound of rustling leaves and distant bird calls filled the silence. Ethan stumbled through the underbrush, his legs still unsteady, his salt-scorched throat protesting each breath.

  After what felt like an eternity, they emerged into a small clearing. A narrow stream cut through the center, its crystal-clear water burbling over smooth stones. Ethan's heart leapt at the sight, and he practically fell to his knees at the water's edge. He cupped his hands and scooped up a handful of water, bringing it to his lips with trembling hands.

  The first sip was a shock. His body recoiled, his throat tightening as if expecting the burn of saltwater again. He gagged, nearly spitting it out, but forced himself to swallow. The water was cool and fresh, and as it slid down his throat, the panic that had been biting at the edges of his mind began to recede. He drank greedily, his hands shaking as he scooped up more water, splashing it over his face and through his hair.

  When he finally sat back, his breathing steadier and his throat no longer on fire, he turned to the Taillow. It was perched on a rock a few feet away, dipping its beak into the stream for a drink of its own. Ethan gave it a weak smile.

  "Thanks," he said. "I owe you one."

  The Taillow looked up at him, its beady eyes glinting with what he could only describe as a wry smile. He blinked, unsure how a bird could manage such an expression, but before he could say anything, it spread its wings and took off, disappearing into the trees with a final chirp.

  Ethan watched it go, a strange mix of gratitude and loneliness settling over him. He didn't have much time to dwell on it, though, because a sudden rustling in the bushes caught his attention. He turned just in time to see a Zigzagoon and a Poochyena burst into the clearing, their fur bristling as they snarled at each other. They were fighting over a bush loaded with pink berries - Pecha, he nearly instantly recognized.

  He froze, his heart pounding as he watched the two Pokémon circle each other, their growls low and menacing. He glanced around, unsure how to react, but his eyes landed on something else — a small, scrawny brown blob lurking at the edge of the clearing. It was an Eevee, he realized, and its fur was matted and its ribs were visible beneath its skin. He watched as it eyed the Pecha Berries with a desperate hunger, hesitating in the face-off between two much larger Pokémon.

  For a moment, Ethan forgot his worries. He'd always thought of Pokémon as gentle creatures, their battles more like friendly competitions than real fights despite the super-powered attacks. Maybe he could reason with them, get them to share.

  "Hey, uh... guys?" he said, his voice wavering as he took a hesitant step forward. "There’s plenty of berries for everyone, right? No need to fight over— Oof!"

  The Zigzagoon turned on him with a snarl, its eyes blazing. Before Ethan could react, it lunged at him, headbutting him square in the stomach. The air rushed out of his lungs, and he stumbled backward, landing hard on the ground. The two Pokémon both took off, spooked by the sudden movement, disappearing into the woods.

  Ethan groaned, clutching his stomach as he struggled to catch his breath. "Okay," he muttered, wincing as he sat up. "Note to self: wild Pokémon are not as gentle as the anime made them seem."

  He glanced over at the Eevee, which was still watching him warily from the edge of the clearing. Its big, brown eyes were filled with a mix of fear and curiosity, and Ethan couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy. He reached out and plucked a few Pecha Berries from the bush, holding one out to the Eevee.

  "Here," he said softly. "You look like you need this more than I do."

  The Eevee hesitated, its ears twitching, but its hunger won out. It crept forward, its movements cautious, and snatched the berry from his hand. It devoured the fruit in a few quick bites, then looked up at him, its eyes wide with surprise.

  Ethan smiled, popping a berry into his own mouth. The sweet, almost honeyed flavor was a welcome relief after the bitterness of saltwater and bile. As he ate (and rested from the consequences of his embarrassing assumption), he wracked his brain trying to come up with a plan. Maybe he should go talk to Birch, in Littleroot town. He might believe his story. Unbidden, a thought rose to the surface: "What if he could be a trainer?" He mused on the prospect with no small joy, until a singular thought arrested his excitement.

  "What am I doing?" he thought to himself. The sweet, juicy berries in his stomach suddenly felt like stones.

  He'd been so caught up in his wonder, at the sheer marvel of being in the world he'd wished to be in for so long, that he hadn't even considered everything he'd left behind. His family, his friends, his life — it felt like a betrayal to think he could enjoy this. The guilt hit him harder than a headbutt ever could, threatening to pull him under all over again.

  Before he could spiral further, the Eevee nudged his leg, its nose brushing against his hand. He looked down to see it staring up at him, its tail wagging low. It was scrawny and timid, so small that it looked like it could fit comfortably in the palm of his hand, but there was a spark in its eyes that hadn't been there before.

  Ethan sighed, scratching the tiny creature behind the ears. "Alright, little guy," he said. "Thanks for the company, but I've got to keep moving."

  The Eevee's ears twitched, and it let out a sharp, indignant cry. It pulled away from his hand, visibly scowling. Ethan blinked, taken aback.

  "Uh... what’s wrong?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Something I said?"

  The Eevee huffed, sitting back on its haunches and fixing him with a glare that was surprisingly expressive for a creature with no eyebrows. It tilted its head, its eyes narrowing, and let out another "eee!", this one distinctly unimpressed.

  Ethan stared at it, trying to make sense of its reaction. "Okay, okay, I get it," he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "You’re not a fan of 'little guy.' Got it. Uh... little gal? Is that better?"

  The Eevee's ears perked up, and it gave a satisfied nod, its tail wagging again. Ethan couldn't help but laugh, a short, breathless sound that felt strange in his chest.

  "Alright, little gal it is," he said, shaking his head. "Guess I’ll have to figure out how to tell the difference. Not like you're wearing a name tag or anything."

  The Eevee let out a little, "vui!" again, this time sounding almost smug, and Ethan couldn't help but smile. He stood up, brushing the dirt off his pants, and took a deep breath. The dense and unfamiliar woods stretched out before him, but he couldn't stay by the berry bush forever. He needed to find civilization, or at least some kind of shelter. He glanced down at the Eevee, who was still sitting at his feet, watching him with her big, curious eyes.

  "Well," he said, more to himself than to her, "guess I'd better get moving."

  He turned and started walking, unsteady at first as tried to get his bearings. He didn't get far before he heard the soft patter of paws behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see the Eevee bounding after him, her tiny legs working double-time to keep up. She let out a cheerful chirp as she caught up to him, falling into step at his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.

  Ethan blinked, surprised. "Uh... you coming with me?" he asked, slowing to a stop.

  The Eevee looked up at him, her tail wagging furiously, and let out an enthusiastic chirp. She darted ahead a few steps, then turned back to look at him, as if urging him to follow.

  Ethan couldn’t help but laugh. "Alright, alright, I get it," he said, shaking his head. "Guess we're a team now, huh?"

  The Eevee chirped again, her eyes sparkling with something that looked a lot like determination. Ethan felt a flicker of warmth in his chest, a small but steady feeling that pushed back against the guilt and fear that had been threading his thoughts. He didn't know what the future held, or if he'd ever find a way back home. But for now, he had a goal... and hopefully, a new friend to share it with.