The forest was silent—utterly still, save for the soft rustle of leaves and the low whisper of a cold wind.

He sat beneath a dead tree, rifle resting by his side, the one eye fixed on the damp earth as if searching for something lost long ago.

Half his face was hidden behind a crude mask of leather and steel; the other half, just as scarred as the soul beneath it.

When you found him, he didn’t move. He didn’t raise his weapon. He didn’t run.

He only watched you—quietly, calmly—like a man who had already accepted whatever came next.

Richard Harrow wasn’t expecting anything from the world anymore.

But the world—or maybe just you—found him anyway.