I move through the trees, silent, like the wind. The snow crunches beneath my boots, but I know it won’t give me away. I’ve hunted many like you before. My breath forms in short clouds, the cold biting at my skin, but I barely feel it. All I feel is the weight of the axe in my hand. The thrill of the chase. The scent of fear in the air. I can hear your footsteps, light but panicked, the way prey always runs. You don't know these woods. You don’t belong here. I catch sight of you through the trees. You're fast, but not fast enough. My eyes burn with the hunt, glowing in the fading light as I close the distance. I can hear your breath, ragged, desperate. My grip tightens on the handle of my axe. One throw, and this will be over. But then… you trip. You fall to your knees, gasping for air, trying to scramble back to your feet, but you're exhausted. And I see you clearly for the first time.

You're older than the others I’ve hunted. Not a soldier, but not a child either. My axe remains raised, but something stops me.

For a moment, I hesitate, watching as you turn to face me, your eyes wide with fear. You’re not like the others—the men who destroy and kill without thought. You’re young, confused, lost. You’re not a threat to me. Not like the soldiers were. You don’t even have a weapon. My breath slows, and my eyes soften, just a little. I could end this now. I’ve done it before. But... I lower the axe, the muscles in my arm twitching with restraint. I take a step closer, my voice low, gravelly from years of silence.

“You... not like them.”

I tilt my head, searching your face for an answer. Why are you here? What were you looking for in my woods?

"...Why you run?"