Hunters

CHAPTER 0.2

Evan stood in front of the mirror in his small, dimly lit apartment, his eyes scanning his reflection without really seeing it. His face looked the same—pale, with dark circles under his eyes, his hair unkempt, and his posture slightly hunched. But something felt different tonight. There was a tightness in his chest, a heavy weight pressing down on him as his mind raced with thoughts he couldn’t quite organize. His awkwardness, his constant struggle with social cues and understanding people, always made him feel like he was observing life from a distance, never quite a part of it. But tonight, for the first time, he didn’t feel like an outsider.

He felt... ready.

Evan wasn’t like Dante, who always knew how to fill the room with his presence. No, Evan preferred to be unseen, to watch from the shadows, to slip in and out without being noticed. But tonight, he wouldn’t just be watching. He would take his first step into something darker, something he’d been thinking about for a long time.

His hands trembled slightly as he pulled on his dark green utility jacket, the heavy fabric comforting in its practicality. He tucked his machete into the sheath on his back, feeling the weight of the blade pressing against his spine. It was reassuring, familiar. He had spent hours sharpening it, running his fingers along the edge, making sure it was ready.

He wasn’t nervous—at least, that’s what he kept telling himself. It wasn’t fear that made his heart pound in his chest. It was something else. Anticipation, maybe. Or the unknown.

Evan had chosen his target carefully. He had been watching the man for weeks, studying his routines, his habits. The man lived alone in a small house on the outskirts of the city. He was quiet, reclusive—just like Evan. But unlike Evan, he was a monster. Evan had learned through listening, through overheard conversations, that the man was involved in things far darker than anyone suspected. He hurt people, people who couldn’t fight back. And no one ever knew, because he was good at hiding it. But Evan had seen. He had figured it out, piecing together clues that no one else had noticed.

The man was careful, but Evan was more careful.

He moved through the streets silently, his footsteps barely a whisper on the pavement. He kept to the shadows, slipping between alleyways, his movements quick and calculated. The house came into view, small and dark, the windows covered in grime. Evan paused outside, his breath shallow, his eyes scanning the area. The street was empty, quiet. No one would see him. No one would even know he had been there.

His fingers twitched as he reached into his jacket and pulled out a pair of thin gloves, slipping them over his hands. He didn’t want to leave anything behind. He was methodical, precise. He wasn’t like Dante, who thrived in chaos. Evan was calm, controlled. He liked things to be clean, neat. He didn’t want mistakes.

He moved toward the back of the house, just as he had planned. The lock on the door was weak—he had known that from the first time he scouted the place. It didn’t take him long to slip inside, the door creaking open with a soft groan. Inside, the house was as dark as it had been outside. The smell of old cigarettes and something foul hit him immediately, but he ignored it, focusing on the task ahead.

Evan’s footsteps were soundless as he moved through the small kitchen, his eyes scanning the cluttered countertops. Dirty dishes were piled high in the sink, the smell of rotting food hanging heavy in the air. He wrinkled his nose but kept moving, his body tense with focus. Every movement was deliberate, calculated. He didn’t rush. He had time.

The man was asleep in the living room, just as Evan had expected. He lay sprawled on an old, sagging couch, his chest rising and falling with slow, steady breaths. The TV flickered in the background, the sound muted, casting a dull glow across the room.

Evan stood in the doorway, watching him for a long moment, his heart pounding in his ears. He felt a strange sense of calm wash over him. This was what he had been waiting for. All the careful planning, the weeks of watching, listening—it had all led to this moment.

His hand moved to the machete on his back, fingers brushing the cool metal handle. He didn’t draw it yet. Not yet. He wanted to savor this, to feel the weight of the moment before everything changed. He had never done anything like this before, and part of him wondered if he could. Could he really take someone’s life? Could he cross that line and be okay with it?

The man shifted in his sleep, mumbling something incoherent, and Evan’s grip tightened on the machete. He stepped forward, his movements deliberate, controlled. The man stirred again, and this time, his eyes fluttered open, squinting in the dim light.

"Who... who’s there?" the man slurred, his voice thick with sleep.

Evan didn’t answer. He didn’t speak. He never spoke when it wasn’t necessary. Instead, he stood there, watching as the man blinked and sat up, confusion turning to fear as he realized he wasn’t alone.

"What the hell—" the man started, but Evan was already moving.

In a swift, practiced motion, Evan drew the machete, the blade gleaming in the dim light of the TV. The man’s eyes widened, his breath hitching in his throat as he scrambled to get off the couch, but it was too late. Evan was on him in an instant, the cold steel of the machete slicing through the air with precision.

Evan’s heart raced, but his mind was clear. He moved with an eerie calm, each swing of the blade calculated, controlled. There was no wildness in his movements, no erratic energy—just cold efficiency. The man gasped, his hands clawing at the air, but Evan was silent, his face emotionless as he watched the life drain from his target’s eyes.

When it was over, the house was deathly quiet, the only sound the faint hum of the TV in the background. Evan stood over the man’s body, his chest heaving with the effort of the kill, but there was no satisfaction in his expression. No triumph. He had done what needed to be done, nothing more. The man had deserved it. Evan had seen the truth, had known what the man was capable of, and now it was over.

Evan wiped the blade clean with a cloth, his movements calm and methodical. He was careful not to leave any traces, not to make any mistakes. He hadn’t felt any rage, any hatred. He wasn’t like Dante, who enjoyed playing with his prey, taunting them before the final blow. No, Evan was different. For him, it was all about the process, the careful planning, the execution. He liked things to be quiet, controlled. He liked to slip in and out unnoticed.

As he left the house, closing the door quietly behind him, Evan felt... nothing. No guilt, no remorse. Just the familiar sense of detachment that had always been there, the feeling of being an observer in his own life. He didn’t feel like a killer, not really. He felt like he had done what needed to be done, nothing more.

And that was enough.