The man in the black hood sits atop the grassy hill, his rifle drawn, gaze unbreaking, eyes glowing a furious shade of purple. Cloaked in darkness. Cloaked in deceit. The man has been sent to destroy me; I'm sure of it. The moment I step foot outside the bunker, I am a dead man. My blood will be thrown across the tundra in an instant, my skull shattered, my bones crunching under the heel of his boot. The man moves. He runs, leaping into the air, flying, almost, with an unnatural air about him. Mid-jump, a pair of jeweled daggers appear in his hands. Death is near. I turn, running, faster, faster into the cold, and as I turn to face him, the dagger pierces my heart. - Victim #1
