?~ blur reality.

  ?The old cabin was a heavy, golden dream. The scent of freshly baked cookies didn’t just drift; it hung in the air, thick and sweet, battling the savory weight of perfectly roasted ducks. Young Lucas Dandrians didn't just wake up; he emerged. He flexed a slow, trembling yawn, his limbs stretching toward the corners of the room as if trying to touch the very edges of his childhood.

  ?He slid from the bed. His feet made a soft, rhythmic thud-thud against the dusty wooden floorboards. Every inch of the walls was a gallery of ink and memory. He stopped, his breath hitching as he looked at the sketch of the King—his father—wearing that jagged, hand-drawn crown. In Lucas’s world, there was no mother to fill the gaps. There was only the King, and the King was enough.

  ?He knelt, his small fingers grazing the grit on the floor as he gathered his scattered world. A deer. A buffalo. A wolf. Papajay the dog.

  ?Then, the glitch.

  ?The frame skipped. The dust motes in the air froze, then snapped. One heartbeat, he was on his knees; the next, his weight was shifted onto a heavy wooden chair at the dining table. The transition was silent and violent. The feast was already laid out—the duck glistening, the cookies still steaming.

  ?His father’s laughter was a low vibration in the room as he dragged the brown bread from the cupboard. Scrape. The wood-on-wood sound was the only thing that felt real.

  ?"Wash your face first, Lucas."

  ?The boy’s frown was deep, but it didn't stand a chance. It melted like an ice cube dropped onto sun-baked stone the moment his father flashed that brilliant, white smile.

  ?"Do I have to?" Lucas sighed, the sound dragging out.

  ?"Indeed. No fresh face means no fresh food," his father replied. He didn't just walk; he drifted beside his child toward the water barrel. "First rule of the hunt, Lucas. Be fresh in thought."

  ?Outside, the mountains were a painting in motion. A veil of golden silk—the sundews—was falling through the peaks, washing over the conical heads of the pines. The snow was a blinding, holy white. Lucas stared at it, wanting to plunge his hands into the cold, but his father’s gaze was a physical weight, grounding him. He dipped his hands into the barrel, the freezing water stinging his skin, forcing him back into the cozy, fragile reality of the house.

  ?Chapter 02 - The Myth of the Dead

  ?Williams Andrata did not walk; he prowled. His boots hit the cracked pavement of the underworld with a heavy, deliberate rhythm. To his side, the Queensboro Bridge reached into the black sky like the ribcage of a dead god. He wasn't afraid. Fear was a luxury he had traded for a jagged, pulsating anger that thrummed in his neck.

  ?He stopped. Slowly, with the precision of a man who knows his time is limited, he lifted his left arm. He stared at the wristwatch.

  ?Seven thirty-two. The second hand didn't just tick; it labored. It struggled to move, as if the air itself was becoming too thick to breathe. Williams let out a long, shuddering sigh. He slid his hand into the deep, dark pocket of his cloak. His fingers didn't just grab the gun; they caressed it. He felt the cold, industrial texture of the Desert Eagle. He tapped the grip. Tap. Tap. A ritual for the hunt.

  ?He moved forward until the flickering yellow light of a neon sign hit his face: BAR.

  ?He stood there for a long moment, the hum of the neon buzzing in his ears. He pulled the Desert Eagle from his cloak, the metal catching the sickly light. He stared at the magazine, seeing the brass glint of the .50 AE bullets—the "rebellion power." He slid the magazine home.

  ?Clang. The mechanical scream of the metal echoed down the alley, a cold, sharp promise. He pushed the doors open.

  ?The bar was a graveyard of smoke. The scent of Dunhill cigarettes and greasy roasted beef clotted the air. Through the gray trails of smoke, Williams’s eyes found the target. The man was a statue in a cowboy hat and a worn leather jacket. He looked like a relic of a world that had ended a thousand years ago.

  ?Williams walked toward the counter, each step a heavy "thump" on the floorboards. He sat on the stool next to the stranger. He looked at the wine glass of Rum sitting between them. It was half-empty, the liquid perfectly still. The cowboy hadn't moved a muscle in five minutes. His eyes were closed, his spirit seemingly lost in the thick, chemical clouds of his vape.

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  ?"Anything for serving?" the fat owner whispered, his voice sounding small.

  ?Williams didn't turn his head. His hawk-like eyes were fixed on the silent man. "Two Black Label Arracks," he said, the words falling like stones. "Two cups."

  ?As the owner retreated, Williams began to crack his knuckles. Pop. Snap. Crack. He did it slowly, relishing the sound. He reached into his cloak and pulled out the poster. He didn't toss it. He laid it flat on the wood and rolled it. It moved across the bar inch by inch, finally tapping against the stranger's glass with a tiny, crystalline clink.

  ?Seven Fifty-six.

  ?The cowboy finally stirred. He placed the vape machine on the table with a soft, plastic click. His hand moved with the fluid grace of a snake, drawing a 9mm Glock from its leather home. He placed it next to the vape.

  ?Then, his eyelids lifted.

  ?Williams felt a cold spike of terror pierce his hunger for blood. It’s him. The man who was supposed to be a ghost. In the reflection of the glass racks, Williams saw the stranger’s face. Those legendary eyes. The left was a standard brown, but the right... it was a pit of pitch-grey.

  ?The Blind Hunter.

  ?The owner returned, the glasses of Arrack making a soft clatter as they hit the wood. Williams reached out, his fingers trembling just enough to be human. He brought the glass to his lips, the sharp scent of the alcohol stinging his nose. He drained it in one long, burning swallow.

  ?Thump. The empty glass hit the table. He wiped his mouth with the rough fabric of his sleeve and finally spoke.

  ?"I hope you know me, the Guardian Angel," he said, his fingers tracing the golden snake ring on his index finger.

  ?The cowboy chuckled. The sound was dry, like dead leaves skittering on a sidewalk. "Guardian Angel?" He finally touched the poster, his fingers moving at a snail's pace.

  ?"Williams Andrata," the cowboy's voice was a calm, lethal melody. "One of the high-class criminals in the Big Apple. Known for high tactical shooting and an addiction to sexual abuse. Calling your past 'Guardian Angel'... that is a valuable honor. Yet I know that it hints that my death is nearby."

  ?Williams’s jaw tightened. He watched the metallic grip of his Desert Eagle, his fingers cuddling it softly. "Seems like you know a lot about me, my friend."

  ?The cowboy took a deep breath of vapor and exhaled. "The cases like the seven-year-old child abuse... the murder in New Jersey... they are still violently beautiful decorations on the front pages of the newspapers. Only one man is behind them. Williams Andrata."

  ?Williams nodded, a dark smirk playing on his lips. "It was some great times, indeed. But I feel you are drifting away from the title we have to apply for this chapter, Blind Hunter."

  ?He reached for his Desert Eagle. He began to disassemble it, pulling the heavy magazine out and laying it on the bar. Then, he began to unplug the bullets. One. Two. Three. He lined them up in a perfect, lethal row. "I'm not here for any fancy conversation with a dead person. These bullets? I don't need them to write your fin."

  ?The cowboy smirked. He grabbed the magazine of his 9mm and began to unplug his own bullets, placing them on the table. "So you mean for someone who survived death once, you can write his French title just by bare hands?"

  ?He crossed his arms, leaning back. Williams copied him. Two alphas, mirroring each other across a table of lead.

  ?"I thought the Great Eagle understands every move," the cowboy whispered. "If the prey comes gentle, the hunter treats him gentle."

  ?He slid his empty magazine back into the Glock—click—and pulled a single Dunhill from his pocket. He clicked a golden lighter. The flame danced in the reflection of his gray eye. He took a long, deep drag. The tip burned a fierce, angry red.

  ?Eight two.

  ?Williams couldn't take the silence anymore. He groaned, a sharp whistle escaping his teeth as he drew a knife from the folds of his cloak. In a blur that felt like an eternity, the blade was at the cowboy’s throat.

  ?"You’re ruining the melody," Williams growled. "I’m out of patience."

  ?The bar was a vacuum. No one breathed. Williams’s heart was a hammer, beating against the inside of his ribs. The blade shimmered under the filament bulbs, vibrating with the Eagle's rage.

  ?The cowboy took one last, slow drag of his cigarette. He exhaled the smoke directly into Williams’s face.

  ?"Williams Andrata," the man said, his voice a cold whisper. "A predator without patience is just a carcass waiting to be found. You’ve officially written your signature over your own kill."

  ?Williams’s nerves screamed. He was an inch away from victory. But then, the cowboy’s hand moved. He didn't block the knife. He grabbed it. His bare palm closed over the sharp edge.

  ?Slowly, the crimson-red blood began to ooze from between his fingers. It crawled down the blade, dripping onto the wooden table with a soft splat.

  ?"In a hunt, zen is the only weapon," the cowboy whispered. "Patience."

  ?With a sudden, violent wrench, the cowboy tore the knife from Williams’s hand. Before the Eagle could even blink, the blade was buried deep in his own stomach.

  ?"Oof!" Williams gasped, clutching the bleeding wound. The cowboy stood up, adjusted his hat, and began to whistle Country Roads.

  ?"Yaaaarrgh!" Williams roared, a sound of pure, desperate agony. He ripped the knife out and lunged. The cowboy moved away, and Williams crashed into a table, the glassware exploding like a bomb. Smash. Slang. He struggled through the shards, his cloak turning red. "You son of a—"

  ?CRACK.

  ?The cowboy swung a wooden chair with both hands, the impact echoing like a gunshot as it shattered against Williams’s skull. The Eagle hit the floor and stayed there.

  ?Sebastian Dandrians paused at the door.

  ?"Tell your boss," he said, his voice cutting through the smoke. "The ghost is back to solve the forgotten case."