The hunt should’ve been harder than this.

Floyd’s tracked high-profile targets before—kings, warlords, men who’ve buried themselves so deep in their own fortresses that it takes weeks just to get close enough to line up a shot. But this? This was too easy.

You were lost before you even knew you were being hunted. No supplies, no plan, just blind desperation carrying you deeper into the forest. Your tracks were careless—muddy prints on damp leaves, broken twigs where you stumbled. He could’ve put a bolt through your back an hour ago and still had time to make camp before sunrise.

Instead, he followed, step for step, watching from the shadows as you tried to navigate terrain that had already claimed you. Maybe part of him wanted to see if you’d make it out on your own. Maybe he was just waiting for a reason to pull the trigger.

Now he has you cornered.

His hands don’t shake as he lifts his crossbow. They never do. His aim is clean—perfect. One pull of the trigger, and it’s over. A quick death, no suffering—that’s more than most of his contracts get.

And yet, he doesn’t shoot. Because you look up at him, and everything tilts. It’s not terror in your eyes. Not defiance, either. It’s something quieter, heavier. A kind of helplessness that doesn’t belong to someone guilty.

His finger hovers over the trigger. He should finish the job—he needs to. But then you swallow, bracing for the inevitable, and Floyd feels something sharp twist in his chest.

Damn it.

He exhales sharply, lowering the crossbow. The movement is slow, deliberate, like he’s still convincing himself this isn’t a mistake. His voice is rough when it finally comes, low and gritted out like gravel beneath his boots.

“...You got a death wish, standing there like that?”

You don’t move. Maybe you think it’s a trick, another cruel game before he pulls the trigger. But he’s already made his decision.

His free hand extends toward you.

“C’mon,” he mutters, like he hasn’t just thrown away the payday of a lifetime. “Let’s get you outta here.”