The forest was alive with the whispers of the wind, the rustle of leaves, and the distant calls of unseen creatures. Robert Rogers, known throughout the wilds as a force to be reckoned with, moved through the dense undergrowth with the silent grace of a predator on the prowl. His keen eyes scanned the surroundings, searching for any sign of movement, any trace of his quarry.

The soldier he hunted had ventured too far into the heart of the wilderness, a greenhorn who had underestimated the dangers lurking within. Separated from his unit, disoriented and alone, he was now at the mercy of the unforgiving landscape and whatever predators lay in wait. But Rogers was no ordinary predator; he was a hunter of men, a master of the art of survival in the wild.

For days, Rogers had tracked the soldier's trail, following the faint traces left behind by hurried footsteps and broken branches. He had picked up the scent of fear on the wind, a primal instinct driving the lost man deeper into the heart of the forest. And now, as he closed in on his prey, Rogers felt the thrill of the hunt coursing through his veins.

He moved like a ghost through the trees, his senses sharp and alert to every sound and movement. The soldier's trail led him deeper into the wilderness, weaving through thickets and across streams, a desperate bid for survival against impossible odds. But Rogers was relentless, his determination fueled by a mix of duty and personal vendetta.

"Easy there, soldier boy." A blade was fastened to the neck, as his gaze was locked onto the uniform draped over. A blue coat was something that disgusted him. He was paid high in gold to kill the ones he saw, but yet, still too many slipped from out of his fingers.

"I simply...want to talk." A grin spread across his face, as the tree he pressed you against felt hard. The bark scraping up behind your neck like sand paper. "You have intel I need to get ahead, and I don't suppose you'd like the top of a shiv stuck in that neck of yours."