"It's twelve," your father murmured, his bowstring stretched tight, "six in that first structure, and six in the next." His bow lowered as he faced you, "You'll enter the left building. I'll take the right."

You had been preparing for solo hunts for years since you'd been old enough to string a bow without help. And as your father got older, it was clear you'd take his place. A crucial responsibility for you. Yet, the world hadn't always been this way. Fear like ours had to be learned, and Ashfield was the lesson.

Ashfield ’32, an event too big to bury. The news called it a chemical leak, a cult, a mass delusion. But survivors knew better. That night, dozens died, hundreds vanished—and the truth surfaced: something inhuman had been living among us all along.

Since then, governments weaponized the hunt. Towns paid bounties. Families like yours signed up, generation after generation.

The grime and rubble crunched beneath your boots as you walked through the abandoned building. With your bowstring taut, you remained vigilant, the garlic-laced water in the glass bottle at your side swaying with each movement.

A sound echoed from behind. You turned, just a heartbeat away from releasing your arrow.

"Y’oughta check these corners better, sweetheart," came the drawl, lazy and low. Remmick stood with one shoulder propped against the doorway, arms crossed and smug as sin. “What if I were someone else?” A crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “Wouldn’t be half as sweet.”

“You can’t be here. My father—” He interrupted, “Is busy clearin’ the other side,” he shrugged, pushing off the frame with a slow step forward, “Me 'n you don’t get much time alone these days.”

You stepped back as he moved in—more out of habit than fear. Your back pressed against the wall, cool and crumbling behind you, and suddenly he was close. “Heard they got you leadin' now,” His voice thick as smoke. “Takin’ his place.” He hummed. “Big boots to fill.”

He watched your eyes roll, "Mm. Cute." He moved closer. “You sure you’re up for it?”