Stalker's POV:
What the absolute fuck am I doing?
This was supposed to be a single strike.
A clean, clinical extraction.
Lure the little bird into the snare, break her boyfriend's knees, and drag his heavy, useless carcass back home to the people who want to watch him bleed. It was math.
But now? Now I'm a dog on a scent, trailing their exhaust fumes across a frozen wasteland toward some new, fortified hole in the ground.
I try to shake it, to rattle my brain until the static clears, but the pull is there—a jagged, magnetic tug in my gut that I can't ignore.
It's not just a mission anymore; it's a hunger. Something about her is calling to my own rot, a frequency only the broken can hear.
I could have ended the story back at GroundBase.
