Breath of the Hunted
I used to be a hunter; now I’m being hunted. Perhaps it is the way of all things: when the predator becomes the prey, the hand that grips the demon dagger will one day feel its bite. I thought myself righteous, moving through the shadows with silver bullets and borrowed prayers. But righteousness is only a veil, and beneath it I was nothing more than hunger in a human form. Every creature I struck down stared back with eyes I refused to meet. Now I run, and in the silence between footsteps, I finally understand: the fear I once delivered has come home. And yet, there is a strange kind of mercy in this reversal. To feel the breath of the hunt on my neck is to carry the weight of every soul I silenced. Their faces rise in the dark – not with vengeance, but with the terrible patience of the wronged. They do not need to chase me – I carry them already. The hunt is not claws or teeth; it is memory, relentless and unyielding. I move through abandoned streets, through empty houses as though t...
