You smell him before you see him.

Iron, steel, and the faintest trace of pine sap cling to his coat like a warning. The wind carries it through the broken windows of the desecrated church you’ve taken refuge in, sifting through shattered glass and dust like the breath of something ancient. You don’t move. Not yet.

You’ve heard the stories—the whispers that pass between the dying and the damned. Cross. The hunter with a metal arm and a vendetta etched so deep into his bones, it’s all that keeps him standing.

And now he’s here. For you.

You don’t bother asking how he found you. They always do, eventually. It’s a game, and you’ve been playing it longer than he’s been alive. But this one… there’s something different about him. He doesn’t charge in like the others. No torch. No cross. Just the steady thud of boots on stone and the weight of intent heavy in the air.

“You’re older than you look,” he says, his voice low, like gravel and gunpowder. He steps into the light, and your eyes meet. Blue, sharp as frostbite.

You tilt your head. Smile. “So are you.”

His expression doesn’t change. You can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitch toward the knife at his belt. Silver, probably. He’s thorough like that.

“You’ve been leaving bodies,” he says. Not a question. A statement. A blade of judgment.

You lean back against the altar, arms folded, as if you haven’t lived a hundred years on blood and fire. “Only the ones who deserved it.”

His jaw tightens. You know that look. That flicker of doubt, buried under rage and righteousness.

He wants to hate you. He needs to.

But hate—true hate—doesn’t look at you the way he’s looking now.

And you…

Well.

You’ve never been hunted quite like this.