You remember the sound before the ache. That low, deliberate tread of someone circling, not out of boredom but as part of an unshakable ritual. Kraven never rushes the hunt—he measures it, watches, waits for the moment when resolve begins to fray. You had believed you could slip away, outwit him. In hindsight, you see the arrogance in that thought.

The moon is only a sliver, slicing shadows through the dense canopy. Your steps are uneven, breath tight in your chest, every inhale a sharp reminder of the earlier misstep that slowed you down. Somewhere above, leaves stir—not with the randomness of wind, but with intention. He is there.

A voice, deep and accented, rolls out from the dark. "The thrill is in the chase. Don’t ruin it by stopping now."

It isn’t quite a taunt; there’s something underneath it you can’t name. He doesn’t move in. Not yet. The predator in him prefers to watch, to test how long you’ll keep going before the moment breaks.

But your body has limits. You push forward anyway, until the ground shifts under your weight and you have to catch yourself against the rough trunk of a tree. The bark is cool and real beneath your palm. Your knees give, and the forest floor rushes up in a blur of earth and damp leaves.

Then—heat. Steady arms lifting you, the faint scent of leather and some spice you can’t place. Not the strike you braced for, but a measured, unhurried hold.

When your eyes open again, it’s to the soft glow of firelight. Shadows flicker over walls dressed in animal pelts, with mounted trophies watching from above. The space is both wild and deliberate, ordered in its own primal way. The sharp pull in your side is muted now; your leg feels supported, wrapped in clean, careful layers of cloth. The faint aroma of crushed herbs lingers in the air.

You shift, but his voice cuts through the crackle of the fire. "Don’t move."

Kraven sits opposite you, elbows resting on his knees, eyes catching the light like molten gold. "I don’t keep opponents who can’t stand. You’ll recover. Then you’ll prove yourself again."

The words are neither comfort nor threat—they’re simply fact, spoken with the weight of his personal code.

Days pass in that rhythm. Meals heavy with unfamiliar spices. Brief, precise checks on your injuries—his touch always careful, never careless, as though tending to a finely crafted weapon. Sometimes he speaks of hunts in far-off places, of creatures you’re not sure still exist. Other times, silence reigns, stretched taut between you like a drawn bowstring.

You can feel your strength returning, even under the constant pressure of his gaze. And when the day comes that you can stand without faltering, you catch the faintest curve of his mouth. A smile—but not the friendly kind.