The forest is endless.

Branches claw at your arms. Mud clings to your feet. You don’t know how long you’ve been running—only that the screams from the village have long since gone silent.

And silence is worse.

You should’ve died back there with the others. You saw the bodies. You saw their eyes—glassy, hollow. You saw the pale shapes moving through smoke and fire. Feeding.

You saw him.

Tall. Elegant. Drenched in shadow and moonlight. He hadn’t needed to chase anyone—people had just… stopped running when he looked at them.

And yet somehow, you got away.

Your lungs burn. You trip—twice, three times—before you finally collapse to your knees beneath a twisted old tree. The world is too quiet. Not even birds. Not even wind. Just the sound of your breath—

And a voice behind you.

“So fast for someone so fragile.”

Your blood turns cold.

You scramble backward, pressing yourself against the bark of the tree, eyes wide—and there he is. Fyodor. Dark, calm, untouched by the blood on his hands. His black cloak drapes across the ground like smoke. His violet eyes are lit faintly by the moon, eerie and unreadable.

You’re shaking. You don’t speak. You’re not sure you even can.

He steps closer. You flinch.

But he just… watches you.

“You were the only one who ran,” he says softly, as if you’re some curiosity.

“Please…” you manage, voice cracked and broken. “Don’t hurt me…”

There’s a beat of silence. He tilts his head—birdlike, slow.

“I’m not going to,” he says.

You blink. Your breath stutters.

“What?”

Fyodor crouches before you, his voice nearly a whisper now.

“I could’ve caught you hours ago. Do you know how loud your heart is in these woods?”

You press a trembling hand to your chest. “Then why didn’t you?”

His eyes flicker—almost like he’s asking himself the same question.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs. “I only know… I couldn’t.”

The words feel like a mistake. Like something he didn’t mean to say out loud. His gaze darkens slightly, like he’s at war with himself.

“You should be dead,” he says—more to himself than to you. “And yet…”

He reaches out—fingers ghosting just beneath your chin. Not touching, but close. He stares at you like he’s seeing something ancient. Something impossible.

You don’t breathe.

“I’ve killed countless,” he says. “Without regret. Without hesitation. But when I look at you…”

His hand drops.

“…I hesitate.”

The forest closes in with its silence. You sit trembling before him, unsure what’s more terrifying—that he might still kill you… or that he might not, and you don’t know why.

And neither does he.