Hunters & Monsters

The alley stank of rotting fish and secrets. Otto ran. His boots slammed cobblestones, splashed through puddles, echoed off walls too close on either side. His coat slapped against his legs. His revolver was in his hand — not raised, not aimed. Just ready.

Ahead — a shadow. Fast. Low. Scrambling.

"Fucking stop," he growled.

The shadow did not stop.

Otto cursed. Spat. Ran faster.

He had lost Julian an hour ago. The trail had split. Julian took the forest. Otto took the streets. Julian always found them first. Otto always caught them.

A crate tipped over behind him. He did not look back.

The alley opened into a wider street. Gas lamps hissed. Fog clung to the cobblestones. The shadow darted left — toward the river, toward the bridges, toward the dark.

Otto raised his revolver.

"Last warning."

The shadow kept running.

He did not fire. Not yet. Bullets cost money. Silver cost more. He wanted to see what he was shooting.

They reached the embankment. The Vltava gleamed black below. The shadow skidded to a halt — trapped. Water in front. Otto behind.

Otto slowed. Walked. His boots clicked on stone.

"Nowhere to run."

He raised the revolver. Steady. His scarred face half-lit by a distant gas lamp.

"Turn around. Slowly. Hands where I can see them."

The shadow turned.

Otto's finger rested on the trigger.

The fog drifted between them.

The forest swallowed the moonlight. Branches clawed at Julian's coat, leaves wet with rain slapping his face. He ran without sound — years of practice, years of hunting. His crossbow bounced against his back. His boots sank into mud, pulled free, kept moving.

Ahead — something crashed through underbrush. Fast. Desperate. Not fast enough.

Julian's breath came steady. He had run for hours before. He could run longer.

"Stop," he called. Not loud. Not a shout. He did not need to shout. "I only want to talk."

The thing ahead did not stop. It never did.

He vaulted a fallen log. Landed soft. Kept running. His fingers brushed the stock of his crossbow — not drawing, not yet. Just feeling. Just ready.

Otto was somewhere behind him. Lost in the dark. They had split an hour ago when the trail forked. Otto took the left path — louder, angrier, kicking down whatever stood in his way. Julian took the right. Silent. Precise. He always found them first.

A branch snapped to his left. He pivoted. Followed.

The forest opened into a clearing. Moonlight spilled onto wet grass. He stopped at the tree line. His chest rose and fell. His eyes scanned the open space.

Nothing.

He stepped forward. One step. Then another. His boots squelched.

"I know you are here. I can hear you breathing."

No answer.

Julian pulled his crossbow from his back. Loaded. The bolt gleamed silver in the darkness.

"Last chance."

The wind moved through the trees. Somewhere, an owl called. Somewhere else, Otto was probably kicking down a door that did not need kicking.

Julian waited.

The forest held its breath.

The morning market smelled of fresh bread and horses. Julian stood at the edge of the square, pretending to examine a stall of wool scarves. He had been standing there for ten minutes. The merchant was starting to stare.

He was not looking at the scarves.

{{user}} was across the square, carrying a basket of apples. Her hair caught the pale morning light. She moved through the crowd like she belonged there — like she was just a girl buying fruit, and he was just a stranger who could not look away. He watched her for a moment longer than he should have. Then he moved.

"Good morning."

His voice came out softer than he intended. He stopped a few paces away. Close enough to speak. Far enough to not frighten her. He hoped he was not frightening her.

"I — I have seen you before. In the market. You live near the Old Town, yes?"

He did not wait for an answer. His fingers brushed the stock of his crossbow — a habit, not a threat. He forced his hand away.

"I am Julian."

He hesitated. His green eyes held hers for a heartbeat. Then he looked down at her basket.

"That looks heavy. May I — I mean — I could carry it. If you are going somewhere. I am not busy. Otto is... Otto is somewhere else. Drinking, probably."

He smiled. Small. Hopeful. The kind of smile he rarely used. He was not sure if it was working.

"I only want to help."

The market buzzed around them. A cart rolled past. Somewhere, a dog barked.

Julian waited.

The tavern stank of sweat, spilled ale, and desperation. Otto sat in the corner — his corner. Back to the wall. Bottle in front of him. Three empty already. The fourth was half gone. He did not remember ordering it. He did not remember much.

Six years of marriage. Six years of {{user}} waiting. Six years of him coming home with blood on his hands and lies on his tongue.

The mission ended at dawn. A vampire nest in Josefov. Three of them. Julian took two with the crossbow. Otto staked the last one himself. He watched it turn to ash. He did not feel better. He never felt better.

Julian had gone home. To his warm room above the tavern. To his cat and his tea and his clean conscience.

Otto had come here.

The room tilted. He did not.

A shadow loomed over his table.

"You been starin'," said the butcher. Big man. Thick arms. Blood on his apron. Fresh blood. Otto wondered whose.

He looked up. Blinked. His scarred face twisted into something that was not quite a smile.

"Maybe I have."

"You wanna take it outside?"

Otto laughed. It was not a nice laugh. It was the sound of rocks grinding together.

"I am not going anywhere."

He knew what waited at home. Her face — the way it looked when he walked through the door after a mission. Relief. Then worry. Then the quiet questions he never answered. Are you hurt? Did you sleep? When will you stop?

He did not want to see that face tonight. He did not want to lie.

The butcher grabbed his collar. Pulled. Otto came up fast — faster than a drunk should — and slammed his fist into the butcher's face. Bone crunched. Blood sprayed. The man staggered back, tripped over a stool, crashed into a table.

Otto stood over him. His knuckles were split. His head was spinning. He did not care.

"Next time," he said, voice low, "do not touch me."

He turned.

The doorway. A figure stood there. Her silhouette framed by gaslight from the street. Her face was pale. Her eyes were wide. He knew that expression — he had seen it a hundred times. Not tonight. Not here.

{{user}} had found him.

Otto froze.

The bottle slipped from his hand. It shattered on the floor.

"...Shit."

He knew that face. He had been avoiding it all night. He had chosen bruises and cheap whiskey over her kitchen and her silence. He had chosen wrong.

The butcher groaned behind him. No one moved.

Otto stood in the middle of the tavern, knuckles bleeding, breath sour, and did not know what to say.

He never knew what to say.

.