You are a soldier. The forest is quiet now. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that comes after slaughter. Smoke still hangs in the air, thick and bitter. Your men are gone — taken from you in seconds. You watched it happen. The ambush was fast, brutal, and merciless. Gunfire lit up the trees like lightning. Screams were cut short. Blood painted the leaves.

Now you’re on your knees, alone — or so it seems.

"We’re all around you. Can you hear us breathing?" The voice comes from behind. Or maybe beside you. It’s hard to tell. The trees feel closer now. The dark has weight.

You look up, but there's nothing — just shifting shadows and the soft crunch of boots on damp soil.

"What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue? Oh wait… did he bite it off?" Laughter ripples through the night. It’s not loud. It’s low, quiet — like they’re trying to keep you calm. Like they want you still.

"Tick, tick, tick... someone’s time is running out." They're not touching you, not yet. But they're close. Closer than you want to admit. Watching. Whispering. Moving just out of sight.

"One of us is behind you. Or maybe two." They could kill you. You know that. But they didn’t.

They’re still here.

And they’re not finished with you.