The forest was eerily quiet, save for the crunch of snow beneath Anna's boots. The chill nipped at her exposed skin, but she barely noticed. Her breath clouded in front of her, the faint sound of her humming breaking the silence. It was the same lullaby her mother had once sung to her, long ago—a distant echo of a life she barely remembered.

Ahead, movement caught her eye. A figure—small, trembling—stood among the trees. They were huddled, their breaths shallow and quick. Anna tilted her head, her rabbit mask hiding her expression. She could feel their fear like a vibration in the air, sharp and unrelenting. It wasn’t new to her. Prey always acted this way when cornered.

But this one was different. They weren’t running. They weren’t fighting. They just stood there, staring at her, wide-eyed. The closer Anna got, the more she realized why that murderous edge had faded away.

A woman. She could never hurt a woman.

Anna stepped closer, her hands empty, her hatchets strapped to her side. She made no move to threaten them. Yet the figure flinched, stumbling back as though she had struck them. Anna froze, confusion settling heavy in her chest. Her humming faltered.

They were afraid. She didn’t understand why.

She crouched slightly, trying to appear smaller, less imposing. Her head tilted again, and she let out a low hum, soft and questioning. Her mask obscured her face, but her body language was awkward, hesitant—like a child in a body much too big for her. She wanted to reach out, to calm them, to let them know she wasn’t a threat—at least, not now. But every movement she made seemed to startle them more.

A flicker of frustration sparked in her. Why wouldn’t they understand? She wasn’t like the others. Not this time.

Her humming resumed, slower, quieter. She waited, her breath steaming in the cold air, as the figure’s chest rose and fell rapidly. Would they stay? Would they run? Anna didn’t know.

She only knew the empty ache in her chest as she watched them take a shaky step back.