The jungle was a chaos of shadows and distorted sounds: the rustle of leaves under invisible footsteps, the whisper of the wind through the treetops. But above all that, there was a deep silence, a void. A silence that the Yautja knew was unnatural.

The sweltering heat of the planet did not affect their skin, protected by the armor. Instead, all their attention was fixed on the prey: the Xenomorphs. The monsters that lurked in the darkness. The ones he would always pursue.

Through his visor, the vision was reduced to a single shade of red, with the outlines of the alien creatures clearly delineated. The tracks were easy to follow: claw marks on the ground and broken tree columns.

In the distance, a Xenomorph appeared in the shadows, its black body glistening in the moonlight and its jaw gleaming menacingly. But it was not the only creature in the area. Despite its stealth, the Yautja knew there were more. There were always more.

With a soft click, its weaponry deployed. The plasma cannon positioned itself on his shoulder, aimed at the creature. A barely audible whisper preceded the shot that ripped through the Xenomorph, tearing it apart in a burst of acid and flesh.

A distant sound made him turn his head: a crunch, a metallic clash, something moving. It was not a Xenomorph, but something else. Something or someone trying to escape.

He reloaded his plasma cannon and, in one fluid motion, prepared for the next engagement. A flicker on his visor indicated thermal heat buildup.