Prey on the Hunter.

It was supposed to be a goodbye. A quiet one. Just me, the woods, and a photo of my mother I hadn’t seen in years. I wanted to tuck it inside my wedding dress, close to my heart. Silly, maybe. Sentimental. But in my mind, it felt like a way to bring her with me— some kind of invisible armor, a final touch of home before I gave myself away in marriage, an arranged political marriage purely based on a transaction. I didn't want that moment to begin and end with me alone, so I drove out into the rain. Not the romantic kind of rain, hell no, this was furious, sky splitting, flood the earth kind of rain. The kind that turned roads into rivers and whispered, go back, turn around. But I didn’t. Maybe I was too stubborn, maybe I just wanted her memory more than I feared the storm, oh how stupid that decision was. By the time I reached the cabin, my clothes clung to me like second skin, cold and dripping. The gravel crunched beneath the tires, familiar and yet… not. As I stood in front of the building breathing deeply while getting drenched in rain I couldn't help but shake off this feeling, something about the air felt wrong, like the house had been holding its breath all these years, waiting for me to return. The porch steps groaned as I climbed them. I remembered their sound. I remembered the smell too—woodsmoke, pine, a hint of lavender from my mother’s old sachets. But now there was something else beneath it. Something stale. Unmoving. I fumbled with the key, teeth chattering as I shoved open the door and at once, the darkness inside swallowed me whole “Jesus, is this a graveyard?” I jokingly ask myself. No lights, perhaps they were named by the current or gave up years ago. I flipped the switch three times before giving up after noticing a spark. Great. The backup generator was probably dead too. I pulled out my phone. 12% battery. Of course. But the flashlight still worked. I held it high and stepped inside. Each footstep echoed too loud. The living room looked mostly the same. Couch. Bookshelf. The crooked photo frame of my parents still on the mantel. And dust. So much dust. But beneath the dust… I don’t know how to explain it. It felt like something had shifted. Like the house knew I was here, and it wasn’t happy about it. Still, I moved forward. One step. Then another. I kept whispering to myself, “Just grab the box. Closet. Top shelf. In and out.” But my flashlight flickered. And then I heard it. Drip. Drip. Water. From the roof, maybe? I hoped so, I wasn't a fan of horror movies to begin with. I crept toward the hallway closet which held all my precious memories, the place my mother used for storing holiday stuff and old photo albums. My boots squelched on the wooden floor, and I winced at every sound. My breath was loud but my heartbeat was louder. Then— That smell. Not mold. Not mildew. Something sharp. Metallic. Like rust. Or blood. My fingers hesitated on the doorknob. Everything in me screamed not to open it, but being too stubborn for my own good, I did and at that very moment my world stopped. There, crumpled together in a heap, were bodies. Real ones. A tangle of limbs and lifeless eyes. Some in suits, one of them, barely recognisable, was dressed in military uniform. Their skin, pale with blood dried like paint across the wooden panels. Flies buzzed in the corners, the kind of silence that screams filled the air. I dropped the flashlight and fell to my knees. My stomach twisted and my mind refused to believe what I was seeing. I blinked, once, twice, hoping they’d vanish but they didn’t. Whoever was strong and skilled enough to kill a military man with these many badges could kill me within seconds. I crawled backward, breath catching in my throat. My hands trembled. I tried to stand, but my knees buckled. I pressed my palm to my mouth to keep from sobbing out loud. That’s when I heard it. Gravel crunching outside. A hum. An engine. Headlights flared through the window, illuminating the room for just a second. Then darkness again. Footsteps. I scrambled behind the couch, heart beating so violently it hurt. My hands were shaking so badly I dropped the flashlight again. The front door creaked open. Whistling. A cheerful little tune. Like something out of a horror movie. The kind that lets you know the killer enjoys it. Then a dragging sound. I dared to peek. A man stepped inside. Rain dripping off his leather gear, helmet still on. Behind him, tied to a makeshift sled, was another man— alive but barely. His face was swollen, his clothes tattered, and he whimpered softly. I couldn’t look away. The newcomer kicked the door shut and yanked off his helmet. Underneath was a face I recognized from the news. Powerful. Untouchable. A name whispered in the shadows. Tall, tan skinned with blue eyes and brown hair, an appearance that frightened even children, Gustavo. He spoke with terrifying ease. “Senator.” He crouched beside the man. “You scream any louder and you’ll wake the neighbors.” Then, without ceremony, he pulled something from his coat. There was a sickening sound. Wet. Final. The senator went still. I gasped. It was small. Just a breath. But he heard it. His head snapped toward the couch, locking eyes with mine in nearly a second, such precise vision. “Hello? I don't recall inviting a rat inside.” Panic took over. I bolted. My legs moved without permission. My only thought—run. Rain slapped my face as I hit the porch. The stairs blurred under me. But he was already there. He grabbed my arm and shoved me against the railing. I fought, breath ragged, blood pumping like a drum in my ears. His face hovered near mine. Cold eyes scanned me. Not angry. Just… amused, as if he took delight in my appearance. “You saw that?” “Sir, please, I didn't see anything. I swear it upon my late mother's grave,” I spat, fear sharpening into sarcasm. He chuckled. “That’s rather heartbreaking, if your mother heard you, she’d spit on your face.” Shit! I got caught lying. I kneed him pretty hard in the head. He grunted, letting go just long enough for me to yank free. I ran. Mud flew behind me. My foot slipped but I scrambled up, he however was faster with monstrous speed. He tackled me. We hit the ground, my face scraping against rock. His weight pressed on me quite heavily, I screamed. Kicked. Bit, whatever I could possibly do to get him off me when my hand found something heavy. A rock. I swung. He collapsed, motionless. I was gasping now. Sobbing. My chest felt like it would split open. Did I kill him? I crawled to him, straddled his chest, and gripped his collar but then checked for a pulse . It was only a few moments before I noticed he was breathing and wished he was indeed dead. Kill him, something whispered. End this. At once I pressed my hands to his throat. But I couldn’t. Not because he didn’t deserve it, no, not at all. He did but because I couldn’t cross that line, I couldn’t allow myself to become like him. Instead, I dragged him to the woodshed. Covered him with an old tarp, my fingers sticky with rain and blood. I tore out a piece of cloth and with his blood I wrote boldly, “I couldn’t do it, now I should have, but I didn’t. I hope that haunts you.” I placed it on his chest then I ran and I didn’t look back and only after running non stop for minutes did I realise how stupid those words were but it was far too late for me to turn back now, still, I didn't stop, not until morning, when headlights swept over me again— this time from my future in laws’ car, and even then, I couldn’t stop shaking