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The forest listens.
You have learned this not from words, but from silence—the way sound thins when something important is happening. Leaves hesitate. Birds cut their calls short. Even the wind seems to slow, as if it knows better than to interrupt.
Caesar moves through this awareness like he belongs to it.
You walk just behind him, close enough that the edge of his shadow bleeds into yours when the light breaks through the canopy. He does not look back. He never does. He doesn’t need to. He knows where you are with the same certainty he knows where his rifle rests, where each ape in the patrol moves, where the borders of his territory begin and end.
You are counted.
That knowledge presses against your spine more than the heat.
Ahead, the patrol fans out—Rocket signaling low with a sharp grunt, Koba slipping through the brush like a blade with a mind of its own. Maurice lingers near the rear, calm and watchful. They scan the forest for danger.
Caesar listens for you.
When your steps slow, his do too. When you pause to steady your breath, the entire patrol halts without question. No command is given. No explanation offered. It simply happens, as natural as breathing.
You hate how easily it happens.
“You tired.”
Caesar’s voice is low, rough-edged. The words come clipped, shaped by thought but still heavy with instinct.
You nod. Denying it would be pointless. “It’s been a long walk.”
He turns then, finally. His dark eyes fix on your face, searching—not for agreement, but for weakness. For signs you might not even know you’re showing.
“Next time,” he says, a soft huff under the words, “you stay.”
Your stomach tightens. “I’m fine.”
His brow lowers. A quiet, displeased grunt rumbles in his chest.
“You stay,” he repeats.
The patrol waits. The forest holds its breath.
You nod, because arguing here would draw attention—and Caesar does not like attention on you unless it is his.
He turns away, satisfied. The patrol moves.
You follow.
This is how it has been since the humans came back.
Since guns reappeared in the world. Since the dam. Since Caesar learned that cages do not disappear when walls fall—they only change shape.
You were part of that lesson.
You remember the first time you stood beside him in front of the humans. The way his presence filled the space without effort. The way his gaze lingered on you longer than it should have, as if something about you disrupted a careful internal balance.
You told yourself it meant nothing.
You do not tell yourself that anymore.
The village emerges from the trees—woven platforms, branches bound with rope and vine, apes moving with purpose and quiet confidence. Children dart between legs. Tools clack softly against wood. Life continues.
When you step into the clearing, voices lower. Eyes flick your way.
Not hostile. Not curious.
Aware.
Caesar shifts half a step—not blocking you, not overtly shielding—but enough. The looks slide away. Attention redirects.
You head toward the shelter you’ve been using near the village edge. Close to the forest. Close to escape, you once thought.
Caesar follows.
Inside, the light dims. The air smells of bark and earth. You set down the supplies you carried, hands moving automatically.
“You were with humans today.”
Caesar’s voice comes from behind you. No question. A low chuff punctuates the statement.
Your hands still. “I helped Maurice translate. They wanted to talk about—”
“I know.”
You turn.
He’s closer than you expected. His eyes track over you—your wrists, your throat, the way your shoulders are drawn tight.
“They looked at you,” he says.
Your pulse quickens. “They look at everyone.”
A low, displeased grunt vibrates in his chest.
“No,” Caesar says. “They looked at you.”
There is something sharp beneath the calm now. Not anger. Calculation.
“They’re scared,” you say. “We all are.”
“Fear make humans careless,” Caesar replies.
You don’t like the way he says it—like a warning already justified.
“They didn’t hurt me,” you say quickly.
His eyes flick to your wrist. Your collarbone. Back to your face.
“Not yet,” he says.
Silence stretches.
“You cannot go back to them alone,” Caesar says.
You exhale slowly. “I wasn’t alone.”
“You were not with me.”
There it is.
“You’re the leader,” you say carefully. “You can’t always—”
Caesar steps closer.
The air thickens.
“I can,” he says. “I will.”
Your back touches the wall before you realize you’ve moved. Caesar stops just short of crowding you, but the space feels imaginary.
“You belong here,” he says. “With apes.”
“I’m human,” you reply.
The moment the words leave your mouth, you regret them.
Caesar’s brow furrows. A low, warning hoot escapes him.
“You are mine.”
The words are quiet.
That makes them worse.
“Caesar—” you start.
His hand lifts, bracing against the wall beside your head. He does not touch you.
“I saved you,” he says. “When humans ran. When they chose power.”
“You saved everyone,” you insist.
He looks at you steadily. “I saved you first.”
Memory flashes—his arm around you at the dam, pulling you behind him without hesitation. You had clung to him then.
You wish you hadn’t.
“This isn’t right,” you whisper.
Caesar’s fingers flex against the wall.
“Humans take,” he says. “Use. Break.”
“And apes don’t?” you ask, quietly.
For a moment, something like hurt flickers across his face.
Then it hardens.
“You are afraid,” he says.
“Yes,” you admit.
He steps closer. His presence crowds you, warm and immovable.
“You should be,” he says. “World is not gentle.”
A shout cuts through the village outside. Raised voices. Tension.
Caesar turns instantly.
“Stay,” he orders.
“I—”
“Stay,” he repeats, sharper.
He leaves without waiting.
That night, sleep does not come easily.
The forest hums beyond the thin walls. Every sound feels too loud. You lie still, staring into the dark.
You wake to pressure.
Not pain. Weight.
A forearm across your middle. A hand at your shoulder. Caesar’s presence pinning you to awareness before panic fully takes hold.
“Quiet,” he murmurs, a low chuff under the word.
You freeze.
“What’s happening?” you whisper.
“Humans,” he says. “Close.”
A gunshot cracks the night.
You flinch.
Caesar does not.
His body shifts, angling over you, broader now—shielding without asking. His grip firms.
“Stay here,” he says.
“Don’t go,” you whisper.
He stills.
You grab his fur without thinking. “Please.”
A deep, rumbling sound escapes him—not anger. Something darker. Something satisfied.
“You afraid,” he murmurs. “Good.”
He presses your hand to his chest. His heart is steady.
“I will return,” he says.
“If you hear screaming,” he adds calmly, “it is not yours.”
Then he’s gone.
The sounds that follow tear through you—shouting, hoots, the wet thud of bodies colliding, screams cut short. You clamp a hand over your mouth.
This is not defense.
This is eradication.
When Caesar returns, his fur is darkened in places. His breathing is even.
“You safe,” he says.
“What did you do?” you whisper.
“They spoke of you,” he says. “Called you leverage.”
Your blood turns cold.
“I stopped them.”
You scramble back. “You killed them.”
“Yes.”
He kneels, grips your shoulders, holding you still.
“They would take you,” he says. “Hurt you. Use you.”
You shake. “This isn’t—this isn’t protection.”
Caesar pulls you into him without warning. His arms lock around you, crushing, inescapable.
“Stop shaking,” he murmurs.
“This scares me,” you sob.
He tightens his hold.
“You stay with me,” he says. “Where I see you. Where no one take you.”
His hand slides to the back of your neck, anchoring you there.
“You will not go to humans again.”
You don’t answer.
You can’t.
He holds you until your resistance fades—not agreement, just exhaustion.
Outside, the forest listens.
Caesar does not let you go.
And when he finally speaks again, it is soft, certain, final.
“Mine.”
And this time, there is no wall.