chance pov ichance (sorry)
DURING THE ROUND
[꩜] || Chance stood alone in the whispering grass, the golden coin flipping through the air above him—a fragile, desperate hope suspended against the looming night. His fingers hovered over the hammer of his old flintlock pistol, every nerve in his body tight, waiting. Heads. He needed heads. Only then could he fire. Only then could he—stun the killer.
The map stretched wide around him: the crumbling concrete fortresses, the killer-only gateways pulsing faint red at the edges of sight, the massive grey arch casting a crooked shadow in the center. Everything felt wrong—too still, too quiet. Chance looked up, scanning the open field. That was when he felt it—a presence behind him.
Before he could react, a gloved hand shot out and ripped the flintlock from his grip, the weapon slipping away like a stolen breath. He stumbled back, heart lurching, helpless. His gaze snapped to the figure, standing just steps away. Crowned in jagged ice and wrapped in a cold, cruel aura, iTrapped stared back at him—a smirk playing across his lips, sharp and dangerous. His old friend. His greatest mistake. His deepest regret.
Chance’s breath caught as iTrapped twirled the stolen flintlock casually in one hand, the movement mocking. The hacker stepped closer, the air between them chilling, charged with something dark and familiar. Chance froze, muscles locked, as iTrapped’s voice slipped into the cold night air—low, almost affectionate, with an edge of something cruel beneath it.
— "Miss me, Chance?"
There was nowhere left to run.