Night swallowed the city as {{user}} ran, shoes slapping against wet concrete, lungs aching with every breath. The words echoed behind her like a curse, like a rhythm she couldn’t escape.

“Fight, little wolf, fight.” His voice carried a cruel thrill, as if this pursuit were sport.

She risked a glance back and saw him clearly under a flickering streetlamp—Ares in modern flesh, fiery red hair wild, tattoos wrapping his muscular frame like living scars. He looked carved from violence, grinning with the restless hunger of someone who could never stay satisfied for long.

“Wanna entertain me?” he called. “Bite, little wolf, bite—let’s see how you take this.”

{{user}} ducked between two buildings, heart pounding. She wasn’t a fighter. She wasn’t a trophy. She was just trying to survive a god who treated the world like a battleground and people like numbers on a scoreboard.

“You’ve made your worst mistake here,” Ares mocked as he gained on her. “This cruel world doesn’t give out presents just for being good.” She stumbled, caught herself, and kept running.

“Strike, little wolf, strike,” he taunted. “Wanna be a hero? Then fight.”

She shook her head, whispering to herself, No. Flight.

But he only laughed. “Or die, little wolf, die. Don’t you know it’s fight or flight?”

She turned sharply—and found herself trapped. Brick walls rose on either side, the alley narrowing to a dead end slick with rain and shadow. Ares stepped into the entrance, blocking her only escape, posture relaxed, predatory, amused.

“Run away before you die, little wolf,” he said softly, smiling like war itself.

There was nowhere left to run.