The sound of rustling leaves broke the silence as the hunter woke up, disoriented. The air was cold, thick with a dampness that clung to his skin. He pushed himself up, his hands brushing against unfamiliar soil. This was no forest he knew. The trees were taller, their bark gnarled like ancient faces. Fog coiled between them, swallowing the horizon.

His rifle lay beside him. It felt heavier than usual, the metal almost alive in his grasp. His instincts kicked in—stay calm, assess, survive. But beneath his practiced demeanor, something stirred. Fear.

Where am I?

He scanned his surroundings. Tracks. Large, clawed, and deliberate. They led deeper into the woods. The hunter’s pulse quickened. He had hunted every creature in the known wilderness, yet these tracks were foreign—impossibly large, almost unnatural.

But a hunter hunts.

He tightened his grip on the rifle and followed the trail.

Hours passed, or perhaps minutes—it was hard to tell in this timeless place. The forest seemed alive, breathing with him, its whispers threading through his thoughts. The tracks grew fresher, leading to broken branches and claw marks that carved deep into tree trunks.

The prey was close.

Suddenly, a sound—a low, guttural growl that resonated in his chest. The hunter froze. His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he scanned the fog for movement. A shadow flickered between the trees, too fast to track.

And then it was gone.

As he pressed on, the forest began to change. It grew brighter, but not with sunlight. Instead, the light was strange, almost dreamlike. He stumbled into a clearing, and for a moment, he forgot his hunt.

The scene before him was eerily familiar. A wooden swing hung from a tree, swaying gently in the breeze. A small, weathered table sat beneath it, its surface etched with scratches and carvings from a pocketknife. His breath caught.

This was his childhood backyard.

The swing creaked, as if inviting him. But no. He shook his head, gripping the rifle tighter. This was impossible—a trick of the mind. He turned away, back into the woods.

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The tracks continued, but so did the strangeness.

He found an injured bird, its wing twisted unnaturally. It flailed helplessly on the ground, chirping weakly. His hunter's instinct urged him to move on. Survival of the fittest. Yet, something in the bird’s eyes—a reflection of his own exhaustion—stopped him. He hesitated, then placed his rifle down. With trembling hands, he cupped the bird gently and set it on a nearby branch, high and safe.

As he turned to leave, the bird let out a strong, clear chirp. For a fleeting moment, the fog thinned, and he thought he saw sunlight piercing through.

The forest shifted again, this time to a rocky riverbank. The water was dark, its surface reflecting the sky’s gray emptiness. On the other side stood a deer, its antlers like a crown. The hunter raised his rifle instinctively.

But the deer didn’t run.

It stared at him, unblinking, as if daring him to pull the trigger. His finger hovered over the trigger, trembling. He was a hunter; this was what he did. Yet, in that moment, the deer’s gaze reached somewhere deeper. He saw his reflection in its wide, glistening eyes—not as he was, but as he could have been.

“You hunt,” the forest seemed to whisper, “but what are you chasing?”

The rifle slipped from his grasp and landed in the dirt. The deer turned and disappeared into the trees.

The trail ended abruptly at a massive cliff overlooking a sea of stars. The fog dissipated, revealing the shadowy figure of his prey. It was immense, hulking, with eyes that burned like molten gold. The hunter raised his rifle, his muscles taut with fear and purpose.

But then, the creature spoke.

“Why do you hunt me?” Its voice was deep and resonant, like the earth itself.

“To survive,” the hunter replied, though the words felt hollow.

The creature stepped forward, its form shifting. Its claws softened, its hunched back straightened, and its golden eyes dimmed into a familiar, piercing gaze. The hunter froze.

The creature was him.

“I am what you run from,” it said. “Your fear. Your regret. Your longing. You have hunted your entire life, but never faced yourself.”

The hunter dropped his rifle. The weapon felt meaningless now. “What… what do I do?”

The figure smiled faintly. “Stop running. Learn to be still.”

The cliff dissolved beneath his feet, and he fell—not into darkness, but into light.

He woke up in his bed, his heart pounding. The rifle leaned against the wall, untouched. The morning sun poured through the window, and the world outside seemed impossibly vibrant. He sat up, his mind reeling.

Had it been a dream? A hallucination?

He didn’t know.

But as he stepped outside, he noticed the injured bird perched on his fence, its wing healed. A deer watched him from the edge of the forest, then turned and disappeared into the trees.

The hunt was over.

And for the first time, he felt truly alive.