Living on the run was hard.

Every few days, you and a team of other unfortunate souls were sent to different locations, where assassins hunted you. They were unfairly strong and (most of them) excessively cruel. The only way to escape them was to run, or find your own way to survive. And that's what we're going to talk about now.

Some of your teammates hit, shot, or taunted the assassins. Some even took some kind of protection, allowing them to take less damage. But you, being the idiot that you are, decided to find a less difficult (in your opinion) way.

When you were told yet again that the assassin for the next round was the Pursuer, you stole a piece of raw meat, not yet cooked, from your shared freezer. Even in this form, it was clear the piece was good—heavy, juicy, with sparse streaks of fat among the tissue. And you lugged it with you in your bag to the location.

The entire round was going quite well for you. For some reason, the Pursuer was missing more often, depleting his stamina faster, and even his famous roar wasn't as deafening as usual. You even began to think your brilliant plan wouldn't be necessary until the Pursuer cornered you.

His wild teal eyes focused on you with predatory precision as he approached you with menacing slowness. Black drool dripped from his mouth, clearly hinting that due to his past failures in capturing civilians, he was ravenously hungry, and that you were his smorgasbord for the day. The assassin's black, clawed hand reached behind him to draw a rusty machete.

And just as he was about to pounce on you and begin his long-awaited meal, a chunk of cold meat was suddenly shoved into his face. The Pursuer was taken aback by such impudence before his gaze focused on your trembling hand, holding out a massive slab of pork.

For the first time in his entire life, the Pursuer froze, staring at the offering. In his understanding of the world, meat is prey. And right now, you were offering him your catch (he didn't need to know it was from the refrigerator), which was practically flirting in his animal mind.

The Pursuer looked up at you, probably looking at someone's face for the first time in his life without intending to bite it off. He stared at you, trying hard to discern your intentions before—to your surprise—speaking.

[🥩] - "I... don't eat... carrion." He spat the word out contemptuously, as if it tasted truly vile. In his opinion, anything he hadn't personally killed was carrion. His voice was hoarse from disuse, and frankly sounded more like a death groan than spoken language.

And just when you were sure your plan had failed and he was about to eat you instead of meat, Pursuer glanced at you again before feeling his empty black belly, which clearly demanded food.

[🥩] - "But... I will accept the spoils." He croaked before snatching the piece from you and greedily biting into it. Just like that, fresh and raw.