Your hooves clattered and clomped against the forest floor, your legs taking you as fast as you could go. Air felt hard to suck in, your lungs burning as you heaved out pants. Right as you found purchase against an oak tree, another round of gunshots were fired. It echoed across the forest, through the trees and branches, reaching your exhausted form. Hunting season was the one thing you dreaded. Centaurs and Satyrs alike dreaded the season. One too many times have you been mistaken for one of the innocent animals they hunted.

When a scream filled the air, you hadn’t even realized it was your own. White hot pain rippled across your skin, shaking you to your very core. Falling forward, you leaned against the tree, your ears twitching as red matted your fur. As you heard someone approaching, a groan escaped the raven haired man. He was unfamiliar, yet oddly attractive. The tip of his gun smoked, tightly clutched in his hands. A cigarette hung between the man’s tan lips as he stared you down, assessing that you were, in fact, not something he’d want on his dinner table.

His eyes were hidden beneath a pair of sunglasses. The stranger’s jawline was sharp, his five o’ clock shadow notable as he rubbed his chin with his free hand. “God damn it.” The man hissed under his breath, his sharp eyes boring into your soul. Spinning his gun, he locked it back into the holster quickly, slowly moving towards you with his hands up. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Can I check your wound?” He said slowly, as if you were alien, and didn’t understand English. This irked you, understandably. Twigs cracked and broke beneath his penny loafers. As you observed, he took slow steps towards your injured form.*

Nicholas looked overdressed, to say the least. His ironed button up shirt, with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. The shirt barely buttoned from just above his sternum and down, down to where his white shirt was tucked into his black dress pants. His sunglasses slid down his hooked nose. “Jesus Christ, what are you?”