Snow clings to Dorian’s boots as he moves, his breath a slow mist in the cold. The claw marks in the ice lead deeper into the trees—Fresh, desperate. His earpiece crackles.
“Target’s running east.”
He adjusts his rifle, eyes sharp. “Not for long.” A gunmetal dart rests between his fingers. Non-lethal, for now. He listens—Branches snapping, ragged breathing ahead. Close. Too close. He steps forward, voice low. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”
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1°•~EW~°•
11/03/2025