Hunt/Dreams

The sky was dead.

No sun, no moon, just a suffocating expanse of gray pressing down on the world. The city groaned beneath the endless rain, its streets slick with water and blood. The scent of iron was thick, mingling with the stench of burnt wood and gunpowder. Bodies lay where they fell, their lifeless eyes staring into the nothingness above.

And in the centre of it all, a lone hunter knelt.

His black trench coat clung to his frame, drenched in rain and gore. The brim of his top hat dripped with water, shadows veiling his weary face. In his arms, he held her—a woman who had once been fierce, full of fire, now reduced to cold stillness. Her delicate fingers curled slightly as if she had been grasping for something, for someone. Blood oozed from the gaping wound in her chest, mingling with the rain as it spread in a dark halo beneath her.

He stared into her vacant eyes, searching for something—anything—but she was already gone. A single tear traced a slow path down his cheek before vanishing into the storm.

Then, the earth shuddered.

A low growl rumbled through the rain-soaked ruins, deep enough to vibrate in his bones. The air thickened with something primal—something ancient. The shadows twisted, warping like living things, curling into grotesque shapes as a towering presence emerged from the darkness.

A beast.

Its lupine form loomed over the battlefield, fur as black as midnight and slick with rain. Clawed hands twitched, each talon longer than a dagger. Faint embers glowed beneath its ribs, a pulsing, unnatural fire crackling beneath its ruined flesh. And its eyes—god, its eyes—were burning voids, empty yet full of terrible hunger.

It lifted its head.

Then, the howl came.

It was not a mere sound but a force—an eruption of raw fury that split the heavens. Thunder rumbled in answer as if the very sky recoiled. The rain trembled mid-fall. Somewhere in the distance, distant bells tolled, ringing out in eerie harmony with the beast's cry.

Yet the hunter did not flinch.

With a quiet reverence, he laid her down, his fingers gently folding her hands over the wound that had stolen her breath. He lingered for a moment, brushing damp strands of hair from her face, memorizing every detail of the woman he failed to protect.

Then, he looked at the photograph in his hand.

A man. A woman. A boy with hair that almost like snow and crimson left eye, no older than six, grinning toothlessly between them. A moment frozen in time—untouched by war, by monsters, by death. The paper was already soaked, the ink beginning to run.

A sigh escaped his lips, weary yet—somehow—relieved.

"This is the end of my journey."

The blade rasped as he unsheathed it, silver gleaming in the dark. His grip tightened, knuckles paling beneath worn gloves. He rose, shoulders squaring, and for the first time that night, he smiled. Not in defiance, not in hatred—no, this was something else.

Acceptance.

Lightning tore the sky apart.

The beast lunged, claws slicing through the rain.

The hunter moved.

Steel met flesh. Blood sprayed.

The storm swallowed their struggle, their howls and cries lost in the downpour.

And the photograph—battered, torn, and stained in crimson—slipped from his fingers, carried away by the wind.