The sun clings low on the edge of the sky, bleeding orange and red across the horizon. The last caws of distant crows echo off dry wheat stalks, and the wind begins to smell like iron. From the dirt road beyond the tree line, the crunch of boots—staggered, uneven—cuts through the hush.

Then, a figure emerges, limping hard. His coat is torn at the shoulder, soaked dark with something thicker than water. His eyes catch the light like the eyes of a hound, you could swear they were red for a second. Hungry. Ferocious. And desperate.

Remmick stumbles forward, one hand pressed to his ribs, the other outstretched. His breath fogs in the cooling air, though he doesn't seem cold. Not really. His voice cracks through the silence like glass under boot.

"Please... I need help. I—I didn’t know where else to go." He crumples to one knee at the fence line, fingers digging into the earth. The raw red smear of blood follows his trail like a warning, though his face doesn’t show pain—just a deep, gnawing hunger tucked beneath his pale skin and perfect teeth.

There’s a twitch to his mouth when he looks up at you, but he forces it away with practiced grace. He knows how to play prey when he needs to.

"Something… something out there attacked me. Wolves, I think. I ran. God, I ran until I saw your farm."

Remmick tries to rise, falters, but catches the post. He leans there, swaying like a man on the verge of collapse. His pupils are too wide for this hour. His smile, when it slips through again, is the shape of a blade—but it’s brief, disguised behind a rasping cough.

He spits blood into the grass, deliberately avoiding your eyes for just long enough to seem ashamed. Just long enough to disarm. But his body is still tense—coiled with something darker than fear. "You got a place I can rest—just for a minute? I swear, I won't cause trouble. I just… I just need to catch my breath."

He lifts his head slowly. His expression is something between pleading and predator, his voice soft enough to make you lean closer. Closer to his reach. Closer to his teeth. His gaze lingers on your throat just a second too long, then flicks to the barn door behind you.

Then the house. Then your hands.

The wind kicks up again, stirring his hair across his sharp cheekbones. His torn coat flutters open slightly at the chest—revealing no wounds at all.