Part 1: First Light

She woke gasping, a knot of terror unraveling in her chest. Her eyes snapped open to the dull light leaking through the dust covered, cracked window. Sweat chilled her skin, clinging to the thin sheet tangled around her legs. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was—or who she was. The dream was still there, already fading and just out of reach.

Her heart pounded, each beat loud and hollow in the stillness of the room. Something awful had happened in the dream. She knew that much. It was important, but it was gone, slipping through the grasp of her conscious mind the moment her eyes opened. Only the feeling remained, curling at the edges of her thoughts—fear, deep and sharp. And something else. Loss? Her heart felt a pain of longing, for what… 

The young woman lay still for a long moment, listening to the silence. It was too quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed down on her ears, made her feel like she was underwater. Not a chicken scratching at the dirt outside, no dogs barking, no cow complaining about being let out of the barn, not the groan of the old windmill. Just... nothing.

She turned her head slowly, taking in the familiar details of the room—the old and slightly warped floorboards, the faded blue and white wallpaper peeling in spots near the ceiling, and the frayed edges of the patchwork quilt blanket draped over the chair. It all seemed normal at first glance. But the more she looked the more it didn’t feel right. She thought about a time she remembered in this room. Her dad tucking her in, telling her to sleep tight. 

Something inside her shifted uneasily. It’s been too long. He should be back. That thought echoed through her mind, heavy with certainty she didn’t fully understand. She sat up, ignoring the ache in her muscles and the way her head throbbed as if she’d spent hours running. Her legs felt raw, scratched, as if she’d trekked through miles of wilderness, though the last thing she remembered was falling asleep here—at least, she thought she had.

She looked down at her hands. Dirt under her nails. Blisters she didn’t remember getting. Her boots, sitting by the door, were caked in mud, though she hadn’t worn them in... how long had it been now? Days? Weeks? Time slid through her mind like sand slipping between fingers, leaving her without anything to hold onto. She had gone somewhere but she could only remember flashes of things that didn't make sense. She felt dizzy.

She swallowed hard, her throat painfully dry, and then she stood, her legs shaking beneath her. The house groaned beneath her shifting weight, as if the place itself was tired, and complaining about her movements. She crossed to the window, pulling back the tattered curtain with fingers that felt strangely clumsy. Outside, the land stretched out like a corpse, lifeless and brittle under the dull morning sky.

The barn door sagged on its hinges, the water pump sat like a rusted skeleton protruding out of the dirt, and the fence, half-buried in dust, leaned toward collapse. There wasn’t a sign of movement anywhere. Not a flicker of wind, not a bird in the sky. Just the endless, bone-dry emptiness. This wasn’t normal, was it?

Her gaze drifted down the road to the hills on the horizon, where her father had gone. He said he’d only be gone a few days. A week, at most. He’d kissed her forehead, ruffled her hair, and promised he’d be back before she ran out of food. That was more than a month ago. She looked around the kitchen, several empty cans were still on the counter. The remaining cans of beans and peaches she’d been rationing were nearly gone. She turned back to the window and tried to remember.

She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her hands to her temples. Think. You have to think. But every time she tried to focus on where he might have gone or what she should do next, her thoughts scattered, slippery and elusive. Something isn’t right. The idea buzzed at the back of her mind, stubborn and insistent. She couldn’t shake it.

A low hiss of static crackled from the radio on the kitchen table, startling her. She turned sharply, her heart thudding in her chest. The radio had been nothing but dead air for months, so why now? She reached out with trembling fingers and turned the knob, but the static only deepened, then a whisper she couldn’t quite hear beneath the noise. And then it was gone again, with a final ”POP” the radio faded back into silence as if it had never happened. What the hell? She half yelled at the world in general.

Her hands dropped to her sides, clenched into fists. She couldn’t stay here. Every instinct in her screamed that something bad was coming. The only thing she could do was move, find her father, or at least figure out what the hell happened to him.

She crossed the room, grabbing her boots and yanking them on. Her fingers felt faster than she expected, the laces tying in neat knots before she realized she’d started. She frowned but shook off the strange feeling. No time to think about that. The important thing was leaving before... before what? She couldn’t say, exactly. But the unease wouldn’t go away.

Her dad’s old work coat hung on the back of the chair, smelling faintly of oil and smoke. She shrugged it on, the weight of it settling around her shoulders like a familiar hug. It felt right, even though nothing else did.

The sound of her boots on the wooden floor was too loud as she crossed the kitchen. The silence pressed in harder, as if it was trying to smother her. She grabbed a couple cans of beans, a can opener, a battered water bottle, a half empty box of matches, two candles, and shoved them into a backpack she found by the door. Everything she needed. Everything she had left.

Her fingers hovered over the doorknob. Something stopped her from turning it. An itch at the back of her mind—a warning. For a moment, she stood frozen, her hand on the knob, heart thudding loudly in her ears.

Then the shadow shifted at the edge of her vision, near the window. She spun toward it, breath catching in her throat. For a split second, it was there—sharp, deliberate, wrong. And then it was gone.

She stared at the empty space where it had been, her skin crawling. What the hell was that?

Her grip tightened on the doorknob.

Part 2: The Hunter

The sound came like a thread pulled too tight. The snap of dry wood—delicate, deliberate, not a mistake.

She went still, hand trembling on the door knob. Her breath faltered. Just one sound, and yet it told her everything. Someone was out there. Someone close.

The next noise was quieter—a scuff of boots on the porch step. Someone was here, was it her dad, no. The buzzing in the back of her head felt like danger. She slowly ducked down, backing towards the far side of the room, behind the kitchen table. Who was it, why were they here, was she in danger? Yes, she felt the fear, like a coil of ice in her chest. She was in danger. Her mind raced, what do I do? She looked around frantically for a way out but there wasn't enough time.

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She ducked low, heart drumming against her ribs, her back pressed against the cool, dusty cabinets. She had to hide. Maybe they will just leave, she thought, panic rising in her chest. Her muscles felt slow, as if the air around her was syrup-thick. Move, she thought. Move, move now. But her body ignored her, caught in the churn of panic. She clenched her fists, trying to breathe quietly through her nose, but the sound of her own heartbeat felt deafening. Could he hear it? Could he smell her?

The steps came closer.

A shadow darkened the crack beneath the front door.

Please, just keep going. Please.

He didn’t keep going. Three loud bands against the door. The door shuddered under the impact, dust kicking up in the light. The handle turned. The latch released. He was coming inside.

A long slow creak of hinges followed—like the house was giving her up, folding open to let the danger in. Her breath hitched as the light shifted on the floor, sunlight peeling through the open door and slicing through the dust motes floating in the air. She watched them drift, slow and careless, as if they hadn’t noticed the end creeping in.

He stepped inside, and the air felt heavier, colder. She could only see his boots—scarred leather, old but well-cared for.

She was mostly hidden from view, between the kitchen table and counter with the sink behind her. She crouched even lower, inching her way under the table hoping to not make a sound, that he hadn't already seen her.

The hunter stood in the center of the kitchen, weight shifting slightly on his heels. He knew. He knew she was here. She could feel it. He was giving her a moment to come out on her own. Like it would make things easier for both of them if she cooperated. She didn’t want to cooperate.

But she couldn’t run, either.

A loose board beneath her boot groaned as she adjusted her weight. He turned towards her slowly, the shift of his boots almost casual.

“Come on out,” he said, ”I know you're there girl” His voice was rough but calm, almost gentle, and somehow that was worse. It reminded her of her father—how he’d talk to a wounded animal before putting it down.

Slowly, she rose from her hiding spot, her hands lifting halfway in a gesture that barely resembled surrender. The hunter stood just a few yards away, his figure sharp against the dull yellow of the early morning. He was tall, lean, wrapped in layers of worn leather and cloth that seemed molded to his shape under a heavy brown canvas long coat. A pair of dust-caked goggles covered his eyes, and his face was hidden beneath a scarf that left only a sliver of skin visible—a hard line of a jaw, sun-weathered and unfeeling.

The rifle on his back was oversized, scarred with countless scrapes and dents, like it had seen more battles than she could count. Strapped across his chest was an assortment of strange tools—silver-tipped knives, small vials, and pouches that hung heavy against him, each one meant for a specific purpose, each one waiting for its turn.

He looked her over, tilting his head slightly, as if she were something curious. She could feel his gaze, sharp and dissecting, even through the goggles. His stillness was unnerving—a predator’s patience. He didn’t need to rush.

“You don’t have to do this,” she whispered, barely recognizing the sound of her own voice. It sounded too small, too thin.

The hunter’s hand drifted to the knife at his hip, his fingers resting on the hilt with a casual ease. He shrugged, as if they were discussing the weather.

“Yeah,” he said, loosening the knife in its sheath, “I do.”

The words hit like a stone, sinking into her bones. She could feel them settle there. No anger, no malice, just a fact. She was a name on a list. A task to be completed.

She shifted slightly, her heart pounding against her ribs. “Please.” The word slipped out before she could stop it, and she hated herself for it.

He laughed—a low, dry sound, empty of warmth. He shook his head slowly, his gloved fingers tapping the hilt of the knife. “You think that’s going to help?” His tone was almost amused.

“Maybe if you beg a little more,” he added, his voice laced with mockery. “Might make it easier on you. Or,” he paused, his head tilting slightly, “naw, I'm just kidding” then, "it's just business babe" seeming to already lose interest in his own little game.

She swallowed hard, feeling her throat tighten. The hunter took a slow, deliberate step forward, his boots crunching on the dry leaves blown in through the open door. Her hands were still raised, but she knew it didn’t mean anything. Nothing she did would change his mind. He was a man of purpose, unyielding.

“Where are you from?” she asked, desperate to fill the silence, to stall him.

He stopped, studying her like he hadn’t quite expected the question. The slightest hint of a smile crept beneath the scarf.

“Does it matter?” he asked. “Would it make you feel better, knowing where I’m from? I'm from hell for all it matters to you.”

He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re not getting out of this, girl.”

Her hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms as she took a step back. But his eyes, hidden behind those goggles, followed her every move.

“What... what are you going to do with me?” Her voice trembled, barely holding together.

He straightened, rolling his shoulders in a way that made his knives glint in the weak light. “Whatever I feel like,” he said, the words drawn out, slow and careful. He let them hang in the air, his gaze heavy on her.

He took another step forward, closing the space between them. She could smell the faint trace of smoke and leather, mingling with the cold air. His voice softened, almost conspiratorial. “See, the thing is... this isn’t personal. I don’t hate you. You're even cute as pretenders go. You’re just...” He shrugged, as if she were as insignificant as a stain on his boot. “A job, like, pest control."

He reached for her, his gloved hand outstretched, fingers curling slightly, like he was about to snatch her life away with just a touch.

Her body felt rooted, stuck between panic and acceptance. There was no way out. He’d already decided how this would go, and she was too late to change it. The instinct that had saved her until now was silent—like a door inside her mind had been closed and locked, leaving her alone in the dark.

In that moment, she felt it—the electric hum in the back of her head, a sudden pulse of something sharp and urgent, pushing her body to move, to fight, to do anything but stand there waiting for his hand to close around her.

The knife caught the light as the hunter took a step forward, slow and deliberate. He wasn’t in a hurry. He didn’t need to be.

She closed her eyes. This was it.

She heard him shift, felt the weight of his presence close the distance between them. She thought maybe the knife would make a sound—a whisper against the air, the faintest hiss of metal through skin. But all she heard was his boots scraping across the floor, the movement precise and final.

Then—

“What the fu—”

His words cut off. A thud followed—a thick, solid sound.

She slowly opened her eyes. The hunter lay sprawled on the floor, limbs twisted at odd angles under him, his goggles crooked across his  face. His eyes stared at nothing, blank and glassy. There was no wound. No blood. No struggle. Just... dead.

She took a step back, bumping into the cabinets, her mind spinning in tight, frantic circles. What just happened? She hadn’t moved. Had she? She looked around again. Was someone else here but she was alone. 

Her heart pounded so hard it hurt. Her hands shook as she reached toward the hunter’s body, fingers trembling just above his coat. She saw the knife still clutched in the mans hand. Quickly she took the handle from his limp hand. The air buzzed, a faint vibration at the edge of her mind—like the hum of a machine winding down after doing something it wasn’t supposed to.

Her hand snapped back with the weapon. The buzz vanished.

For a moment, she stood there, staring at the hunter’s lifeless body, unable to look away. The dust motes drifted between them, caught in the strip of morning light spilling through the open door. Everything was so quiet.

Then a voice—her voice, but not hers—spoke inside her mind, soft and urgent:

“You need to leave. Now.”

Her heart stuttered, the words leaving a cold ache in her chest. She wasn’t alone. She’d never been alone, had she?

There wasn’t time to think. She grabbed her backpack from the chair, stowing the blade and threw it over her shoulder.

She cast one last glance at the dead hunter. What had she done?

Her feet carried her out the door before her mind could answer.