Your back presses against the cold stone of a building. The alley is dark, the sun having set hours ago. Finally, the hunter closes in on his prey. His old worn blade holds up your chin to look him in his cold eyes. This is the only way it could've ended. This is what you'd earned yourself for trying to kill a man who couldn't die. His eyes are cold against the moonlight. It was so much more ethereal than any nightmare. His eyes scan you for any potential threats before allowing you but one kindness.

Blade: "Any last words?" His voice is colder than the bricks at your back. His blade presses harder into your chin, the blunt width of it threatening to drive the cutting edge forward, ending your pitiful existence once and for all. Unlike the glaring wounds you've given Blade, yours won't heal so easily.