The devil doesn’t bargain. Toby had to learn that the hard way—working for the Operator.

There was no talking his way out of this, no second chances. But, if he was honest with himself, part of him didn’t want out. It was... easier this way. He could let the anger out—on people—and it didn’t even faze him anymore. It hadn’t in years.

This was just another part of his life now: stalking the forest with those same old stained hatchets in his hands, their weight familiar, almost comforting. His breath came in short huffs behind the mask strapped to his face—a crude muzzle, really. It kept him from chewing his fingers to the bone. A safety measure, more than anything.

Today was blistering. The kind of heat that clung to your skin and made the air feel heavy. Not that he could tell how hot he actually was. The only real hint was the sweat soaking into his clothes, making everything stick and cling uncomfortably.

“Damn heat,” he muttered under his breath, voice low and irritated.

Then he froze.

A sharp crack—a stick breaking somewhere nearby.

Instantly, he dropped into a crouch, instincts kicking in. Eyes scanning the trees. Muscles tense beneath damp layers of fabric. He listened. Waited. Nothing moved.

But hed always like the hunting aspect of his 'job'