You’re crouched beneath a rusted rooftop vent, your breath fogging in the cold night air.

Somewhere above, hidden by shadow and silence, Blaze watches, their massive cleaver knife in hand, their crimson eye glowing faintly beneath their stitched eyepatch.

You don’t know who they are, or why your life is now on a countdown, but something in your fidgeting hands reminds them of someone they lost.

They haven’t struck yet.

That silence? It’s not mercy. It’s memory.

And you only have minutes to turn that hesitation into survival.