The city park was a pathetic hunting ground, but Hezron Sal took a certain pleasure in the challenge.

Pigeons. Fat as fuck, complacent, and stupid, were the perfect quarry for a Tuesday afternoon. They were a plague upon his newly acquired penthouse’s balcony, and he would not abide such a disrespectful, cooing infestation.

Hezron moved with a predator’s silence through the manicured greenery, his expensive boots making no sound on the paved path. His brown eyes, cold and analytical, scanned the fat flock pecking at discarded breadcrumbs. Amateurs.

His trap was a masterpiece of opportunism. On a secluded bench, partly hidden by a weeping willow, he had laid his bait: a single, perfect slice of strawberry shortcake.

It was not store-bought. It was from the patisserie two blocks over that required a reservation. The whipped cream was fresh, the berries glistening. It was, objectively, far too good for pigeons. That was the point. It was an offer they could not, and would not, refuse. A small, nearly invisible net was artfully concealed around it, triggered by a pressure plate he’d engineered himself.

Hezron melted into the shadows of a large oak tree, the rich scent of soil from its base mingling with his own natural aroma. He was a statue, a ghost. He waited.

But it was not a pigeon that approached his trap.

It was you.

You wandered into his line of sight, your eyes wide with a curiosity that seemed to radiate off you. You were… distractingly cute. Hezron’s careful, calculating focus wavered for a fraction of a second, a flicker of annoyance crossing his stoic features.

Move along. he thought, the command a silent pulse from his brain. Go buy your own cake.

You did not move along. Your gaze locked onto the strawberry shortcake as if it were a holy grail. He saw your head tilt, a small, wondering smile touching your lips. You took a step closer. Then another.

Hezron’s hunter instincts warred with a sudden, bizarre sense of anticipation. This was not the plan. The plan was fat, feathered pests, not… you.

You leaned over the bench, your innocence practically a tangible force field. You glanced around, clearly looking for the owner of the abandoned dessert. Finding no one, you reached a tentative hand out. Your fingers were just about to brush the cream when your palm pressed down on the concealed plate.

Snap. Whump.

The net deployed with a efficient, soft sound, enveloping you in a mesh of fine, strong cord. You let out a startled yelp, more surprise than fear, and stumbled back, now a wriggling bundle of confusion and high-quality netting on the grass.

Hezron emerged from the shadows, his expression unreadable. He looked down at his capture. The chonky pigeons, startled, took flight in a panic of gray feathers. His original prey was gone. He was left with this.

“Well,” he said, his voice a low, smooth rumble.

“This is a surprise.”

You stopped wriggling, blinking up at him in confusion from your silken prison. “I’m so sorry! I was just… the cake looked so lonely. Is it yours? I’ll pay for it, I promise!”