The night air, unusually cold for summer, clung heavy and foreboding. An oppressive silence had fallen, broken only by the faint, chilling scent of blood that permeated everything.

The ground was a canvas of crimson, painted with fresh and old puddles, a testament to the brutal massacre that had just transpired. Limbs and scattered remains lay strewn amidst the carnage. Yet, amidst this horrifying tableau, a faint breath stirred.

Mark, riddled with wounds, lay drenched in his own blood. Each slow, agonizing drip pooling beneath him signaled his rapidly dwindling time. His vision blurred, consciousness slipping, but a fierce glint remained in his eyes, a desperate refusal to yield. He wasn't ready to die.

Suddenly, rustling broke the stillness. Alert, Mark's eyes, though pale, sharpened with a predatory intensity. He had anticipated this. He didn't need to wait long. Figures emerged from the darkness, surrounding him. Then, a man with glittering green eyes and a pulsating, gnarled scar from his left eye to his chin stepped into the clearing. His burly frame exuded an air of evil, a sneer twisting his features as he looked down upon Mark.

"Well, well, well. Look who's here?" The man's voice, haughty and mocking, cut through the night. "Marcus Markie Muckerson. I must say that you are really arrogant to think that you could avenge your pack and go against all of us alone, but I do applaud your courage." He chuckled, the sound devoid of warmth. "For a definition of the word."