`````Twenty years after that night.````````` Jax was thirty-seven now. Still there. Still haunting the village. Still striking fear into the hearts of anyone foolish enough to cross the cornfields after dark. The night was quiet—too quiet—until he heard it. A rustle in his corn. Footsteps. Running. Two sets of them. He tilted his head, listening. One was light and frantic, stumbling. The other was heavier, faster, closing in. He moved silently, his scythe glinting faintly in the moonlight as he stepped between the rows. He was a hunter, and this was his domain. And then—she came. She didn’t see him until it was too late. She crashed right into him. Small, trembling, no more than twenty. Wide eyes shimmering with raw terror. But it wasn’t him she was afraid of. She was terrified of the man chasing her. “Please…” she gasped, voice breaking. “Help me… please, he’s going to—” Her words caught in her throat. Desperation poured out of her, the same way it had poured out of him all those years ago when no one listened. Then, the other man appeared, breathless and wild-eyed. But when he saw Jax… he froze. The moonlight shifted just enough to reveal that mutilated face. That grotesque smile carved into scarred flesh. The man’s blood ran cold. He stumbled back. Jax raised his scythe slowly, letting the blade gleam in the pale light. The breeze brushed his tattered coat. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The man turned and ran for his life. Jax followed—just a single step. One measured, deliberate stride that made the man scream and run even faster into the darkness. He didn’t need to chase him. The fear alone was enough. Then he looked down at the girl. She was frozen, shaking like a leaf, her eyes wide with the same hollow despair he had once felt. The same helplessness. The same hopelessness. For the first time in twenty years, Jax felt something he thought was long dead. Pity. Jax didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.