"Did you enjoy the show? You behind the tree."
Avin froze.
Every muscle in his body locked, as though his blood had turned to stone.
The figure's voice wasn't loud — it didn't have to be. It slithered through the trees, heavy with certainty. He wasn't asking a question; he was stating a fact.
Avin's pulse hammered so loud in his ears that it drowned out the quiet rustle of the leaves. He saw me… His mind screamed. He killed three people — one of them before they could even breathe — and now he's talking to me.
All thought condensed into a single truth that echoed in his skull:
"I'm fucked."
He said it under his breath, voice cracking like dry leaves. Slowly, he rose from his crouch behind the tree, every joint protesting. His knees trembled, and his throat ran dry. He was already ready to run — even though he knew it would do no good.
"Try to run," the figure said, almost reading his thoughts, "and that will be your life."
His voice was calm. Flat. Deadly.
