The hallways echoed with footsteps Evelyn could only feel, not hear.
Since her admission was processed after regular class hours, the campus felt half-asleep. No students. Just a few professors walking with files in hand, and assistants shutting office doors for the day.
Principal Raven walked ahead, her heels striking the floor sharply—Evelyn sensed each vibration.
They reached a large double door.
Raven pushed it open.
"Your lecture hall," she said.
Evelyn stepped inside.
The room was massive—rows of long benches,soft overhead lights,a huge wall-sized touch board up front,and two projectors fixed high above like silent eyes.
The space smelled of chalk dust, old books, and a faint hint of disinfectant.
Raven watched Evelyn's reaction.
"This is where most of your law lectures will be," she explained."Interactive boards, live case projections, recorded court hearings… all at your fingertips."
Evelyn traced the edge of a bench with her fingers—smooth, polished wood worn down by years of restless students.
Raven folded her arms.
"It's too easy for you to pay here," she said plainly, her lips forming the words slowly."You have funds. You're stable."
She turned toward the empty hall.
"But most of the students here… they need fee aid, scholarships, loans just to survive a semester."
There was no jealousy in her tone.No bitterness.Just truth.
She looked back at Evelyn.
"Use this opportunity well."
Evelyn nodded once, her face unreadable.
For her, silence wasn't empty.It was full of reminders—of where she came from,and where she was determined to go.
The tour wasn't over yet.But something in her eyes shifted.
This place…would change everything.
The sun was dipping when Evelyn left the campus, her notebook tucked under her arm.The walk to her apartment was short—she had bought the place months ago, long before applying.A decision made in silence, like most things in her life.
She reached the third floor, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
The apartment was simple—soft grey walls, a wide window, warm lighting, and the faint smell of coffee someone had left too long on the counter.
Inside, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV…was Schwann.
Seventeen, messy hair, oversized hoodie, headphones around his neck.
He didn't notice her enter.
He was too busy yelling at the screen—of course she couldn't hear him, only saw his lips moving fast and angrily as his fingers smashed buttons on the controller.
His cat—a fluffy white creature with mismatched eyes—was lying on its back, paws tangled in a red yarn ball, kicking at it like it had offended its ancestors.
Evelyn stood at the entrance, watching the scene quietly.
Schwann finally saw her in the corner of his eye and jumped a little.
He paused the game instantly, tossing the controller aside.
"Evelyn! You're back!" he said—his lips moving quick, excited, easy for her to read.
The cat meowed loudly at her—or… at least its mouth opened like it did.
Yarn wrapped around its legs like soft shackles.
Schwann scrambled to untangle it.
"Don't worry, he does this every five minutes," he said, pointing at the chaotic furball."Welcome home."
Evelyn placed her notebook on the table.
For a moment, she looked around her apartment.
Her home.Her life.Her silence.
And somewhere deep inside her—something darker than the snow mountainwas beginning to shift.
The world snapped back into white.
Snowstorm.Ice in the air.Breath turning into fog.A mountain that seemed to swallow the sky whole.
Three years had passed.
We returned to the same scene—Evelyn running, gun in hand, silent as death.
But this time…the author's voice slid back into the story like a shadow.
As you've seen… she wasn't like this in the beginning.No, Evelyn Raine didn't start as a hunter.She didn't begin her life chasing a man across a mountain with a loaded gun.
The man ahead of her slipped again, boots dragging through the snow, fear twisting his features.
He screamed something loud—words Evelyn couldn't hear,but the panic on his lips said enough.
She raised the gun.
THUD.
But the author cut in immediately:
The bullet went to the right side of the man.Near him… not in him.
The snow exploded beside the man, spraying white dust into the air.
He stumbled, terrified.
Evelyn's expression didn't even flicker.
Like I told you before…this didn't happen in days.Or weeks.It took time.A long, dark time for a girl like her to become this.
The wind howled around her—or maybe it was silent.For Evelyn, everything always was.
The author's final whisper folded into the scene:
Hatred doesn't grow overnight.It took years… three years… to turn her into the woman you see right now.
And the snow kept falling.
The man's scream tore through the frozen air—or maybe it didn't.Maybe only his fear reached her, twisting his mouth, shaking his breath.
Evelyn lifted the gun again.
Her fingers didn't tremble.Her stance didn't change.Silence clung to her like a second skin.
THUD.
A second shot split the snow beside him—closer this time.Close enough for the ice to sting his cheek.
He collapsed backward, scrambling, hands raised, trying to protect himself from a girl who didn't blink.
His breath came in sharp bursts.
"Evelyn—PLEASE!" he shouted, voice cracking."What I did to you— it wasn't on purpose!"
She stared at him.Emotionless.Empty.
"It was an… energy outburst!" he babbled, the words tumbling out in panic."It happens when hormones increase— I wasn't thinking— it wasn't intentional— I didn't—"
Evelyn's eyes quivered.
Just slightly.
A tear slid down her cheek.Not because she pitied him.
Because she hated herselffor still remembering his words,for still giving his excuses power,for still being the girl who once froze instead of fighting back.
The snow kept falling.
Her tears kept falling.
The man kept talking—
And Evelyn stood above him, gun steady, heart breaking in silent pieces no one could hear.
Evelyn's tear tracked down her cheek, freezing halfway.
The man kept begging, kept explaining, kept dragging excuses through the air.
She didn't hear any of it.
She only saw the shape of his words.And the shape of his fear.
Slowly, Evelyn raised the gun one last time.
No hesitation.No shaking.No mercy.
THUD.
The bullet struck his head—clean, final, silent in her world.
He dropped.The snow accepted him without complaint.
Evelyn stared at him for a moment, her expression unreadable—not triumphant, not relieved.Just… done.
Then, unexpectedly, she lowered herself onto the snow beside him.
She lay on her back, arms spread, letting the cold swallow her body.Snowflakes landed on her eyelashes.Her breath rose in small, steady clouds.
For a few seconds, she moved her arms slowly, like a child making shapes in winter.A strange contrast to the violence from moments before.
After a while, she sat up.
Her coat rustled softly as she reached into her pocket.
She pulled out a notebook—small, worn, edges soft from years of touching.A notebook no 23-year-old should have needed.
Inside it were lists.Pages filled with numbers.Tasks.Deadlines.
Things she had to do before her death.
Evelyn flipped to one page.
Next to a line that read:
— Confront him.
She drew a neat, calm tick beside it.
Snow kept falling.The mountain stayed silent.
And Evelyn closed the notebook gently, like finishing a childhood diary—except hers was a countdown.
The snow around her had already begun to settle again, smoothing the world like nothing violent had happened here.
Evelyn stood.
No hesitation.No fear.Just routine—cold, practiced routine.
She grabbed the man's legs and began dragging him across the snow.The mountain dipped slightly on one side, forming a shallow slope.She slid his body down it, letting gravity help her, the snow swallowing the trail behind them as fresh flakes fell.
When she reached a dip between two rocks, she pushed him in, letting the shadows cover him.
Evelyn brushed off her gloves.
Then—quietly, calmly—she reached into her long jacket.
The pockets were big, too big, designed deliberately.Useful, dangerous.
From one of them, she pulled out a small bottle labelled:
Isopropyl Alcohol.
She unscrewed it with steady fingers.
Then she began wiping—the gun grip,the snow she touched,the surface of the rock,her own gloves.
Every place that could betray her.
When she noticed the small smear of blood on her shirt—from leaning against his body—she paused.
She removed the shirt without emotion.
Cold air slapped her skin, but she didn't flinch.
She threw the stained fabric into the snow.
Then she tugged at the dead man's collar and removed his shirt as well.
Two shirts.Two problems.
She piled them together, poured the remaining alcohol over them, and struck a lighter.
A small flame rose—soft but hungry.It chewed the cloth quickly, leaving nothing but dark ashes melting into the snow.
The fire died.
The mountain went still again.
And then the author's voice slid into the silence:
What do you think he did to her?What kind of wound does it take… to turn a girl like Evelyn Raine into this?
The snow kept falling.
The question kept echoing.
But the answer…was still buried in the past.
Two days later, the missing‑person report finally hit the precinct.A man in his mid‑forties. Name withheld from the public. Last seen heading out for a late‑night walk in the snow.
That morning, Officer Maya Hargrove trudged through the freezing hillside with another patrolman. Snowfall had softened the world into white mounds and dead silence—except one mound looked…wrong.
Too smooth. Too tall. Too intentional.
Maya crouched, brushed the layer of snow aside, and the horror beneath made her breath hitch.The body was packed into the snow like someone had carefully folded him in. His skin was bluish, his blood frozen into thin red crystals.
"Jesus…" the patrolman whispered behind her.
Maya stood, eyes narrowing as she studied the scene with calm precision.
"Get over here," she said. "Look at this."
The man stumbled closer. Maya pointed at the entry wound.
"The killer was right‑handed. Close‑range shot—three, maybe four feet away."
She wiped fresh snow from the dead man's temple.
"And the bullet… it wasn't clean. It was blunted before firing. Someone wanted him to feel it. Someone angry."
The patrolman swallowed. "So we're talking… what? Revenge?"
Maya's jaw clenched.
"No. Someone this methodical doesn't lash out. They plan. They cleaned prints, burned the clothes, and they knew how to pack a body so animals won't find it."
She took a breath, staring at the quiet white forest around them.
"This isn't rage," she said. "This is someone who enjoys the process."
She exhaled a cloud of frost.
"We've got a psycho on our hands. And we're gonna have to catch whoever the hell they are—before they tick off whatever's next on their list."