For eternity, the Predator has consumed.
Never been wounded.
Never been diminished.
Never been answered.
Until now.
⸻
The first sign that something is wrong with it is not violence.
It is color.
Across the bound sky above Blood Moon, the void that once drank light begins to stain.
Not with darkness.
With a thin, impossible thread of crimson inevitability.
Jason freezes mid-reading, every instrument in the sanctum screaming at once.
“That’s not energy,” he whispers. “That’s not shadow. That’s not dimensional rupture.”
Zane looks up sharply, the newborn still pressed protectively to his chest.
“What is it?”
Jason swallows hard.
“It’s loss.”
The Predator is bleeding.
⸻
Above the world, the bound hunger convulses.
Not violently.
Not in rage.
In malfunction.
Its containme
