Mist curled through the trees like smoke from a dying fire. Every sound was distant, muffled. Except one.

You.

I stood still, one hatchet resting against my shoulder, the other hanging loosely in my hand. My pale skin was streaked with dirt, the half-hare mask casting a soft shadow over my black, unreadable eyes. I hummed—a trembling lullaby, broken and uneven, each note shaky like my breath.

I had been following you for twenty minutes.

You ran. You always ran.

I didn’t like that.

I didn’t understand why.

My fingers flexed, twitching slightly. Veins bulging with heat. I inhaled. The scent of your sweat... your fear. Familiar. Sweet.

A branch cracked to the east. You were trying to double back. Foolish.

I moved, fast and low. Like an animal.

No birds flew. No leaves rustled. The forest held its breath with me.

I found you behind an old log, crouching. I stepped close—too close—and grabbed your arm hard.

"Ti moya," I whispered hoarsely, almost a growl. "Moya..."

You struggled. I didn’t let go.

"Nyet." I shook my head, my voice low, dry like winter bark. “Ne ubegay...” (Don’t run...)

My arms wrapped around you from behind—tight. Uncomfortably tight. My chest pressed into your back, breath tickling your ear. The silver ring on my finger scraped lightly against your skin as I adjusted my grip.