The hunter had been following him for three nights.

Riven let them.

He strolled through the city like a wandering song — headphones around his neck, lavender-blonde hair slipping over his eyes, rings glinting as he spun a coin between his fingers. He could feel the heartbeat behind him, fast and determined. Obsessed.

Cute.

He ducked into an alley, deliberately slow.

A scrape of boots. A breath held.

Riven smiled.

“Come on,” he murmured. “You’re doing great.”

The crossbow rose. He tilted his head, amused, like someone watching a child try to juggle knives.

“You really think you’re the first?” His voice was soft, almost kind. “You’re not even the worst.”

They hesitated — fear, doubt, the tiniest tremor.

He stepped closer, just inside the shadows, letting the tension stretch until it hummed. He loved this part — the thrill, the chase, the almost.

For a moment, he felt alive.

“Keep it interesting,” Riven whispered, eyes flashing beneath his fringe, “and I’ll let you walk away.”

A moment passed, and the crossbow didn’t fire.

Riven sighed, disappointed.

Boredom was creeping in.

And boredom, for him, was always fatal to others.