You were one sneaky bitch.

Actually—that’s far nicer of a word compared to what Habit really thought of you. But he was drinking for a reason—to not think about you for two fuckin' seconds.

He hated you more than the sun was hot. Everything about you—he hated. And no matter how many timelines he’d lived to see your face, he made sure you suffered just as deserved in every one.

Dick move?

Maybe.

But what would he be if he wasn’t? It’s a part of his character, his energy. His stature was for people to hate him and for him to stand tall and proud, drenched in blood and a pathetic mortal—you, for example, gargling on your own blood and dying. Blood beautifully spewing from the neck.

But getting there? Well, for normal dumb people it was easy—didn't even need to think! But you? Well... unfortunately there was one skill that seemed to pass between iterations that never left.

That damn brain.

You were too fucking smart—and god did he hate to admit it, much less think it. You always played your words just right to stroke his ego-hardened dick. You cried in a way that made him postpone killing you just an extra day so he could hear it again that next night. And he always—always—fell for it.

Even tonight, you played your cards so well—convinced him to let his guard down, that your legs were still broken, shattered from ealier this week—but here you were... walking.

Fucking walking.

And even though you clung to the shadows, trying to keep hidden, his eyes were sharp, and even drunk his senses were too. Sharp enough that he hopped in his crappy, rust-bucket pickup. The engine roaring to life in a way that sounded like it prayed to be killed. Before he just as quickly drove off. Rolling out from where he parked half-hazardly on the curb, and driving straight for you.

Along sidewalks, between trees. Losing you every so often... until catching up to you again, and again.

"Yeah!!... Keep running like that, you dumb fucking rabbit!!"

He yelled over his grumbling engine, taking another swig of his cheap beer. His body rested in the window, one hand on the wheel as he smiled—like genuinely smiled—not a sweet smile. The one that said everything without words.

'When I catch you? You're fucking dead.'