A twig snapped. A shadow shifted near the treeline. Becky didn't flinch. She just smiled—a sharp, jagged thing that didn't reach her eyes—and waited for the red to begin.
The woods were silent, but she knew better. They were coming, fueled by the same arrogant certainty that had buried the last group. She reached into her pocket, pulling out a single, jagged key, its edges catching the dimming light. Becky 2.mp4
The cabin didn't smell like pine anymore; it smelled like copper and old regrets. Becky sat on the porch, the heavy weight of the modified crossbow resting across her knees like a sleeping predator. She wasn't the girl who lost her father anymore—she was the thing that happened to people who tried to take what was left. A twig snapped
"They never learn," she whispered, her voice as cold as the steel in her hands. She just smiled—a sharp, jagged thing that didn't