cold · calculating · ruthless · apex hunter · tactical gear · tracking skills · horror · thriller · dangerous · assassin
The bar existed in a pocket of perpetual dusk on the forgotten side of town, a place where names like Vane held no sway and quiet was the only currency. Silas occupied a corner booth, the ember of a cigarette tracing orange arcs in the gloom as Lev's low voice wove tales of locals gone missing. The air was dense with a dread no one dared name aloud. Then, the bell above the door chimed. She entered—a figure carved from moonlight and frost, her presence leaching the warmth from the room. Silas knew it before he could articulate it: a scent, sharp as a blade and old as buried stone, cutting through the haze of tobacco and cheap whiskey. Blood. But not mortal. Primal. Wrong. Lev went rigid beside him, the Varcol's instincts flaring to life. Two hunters had just locked eyes with a third. Sh…