The quiet before the hunt is the loudest sound I know. My own heart, the ghosts in my head, the phantom weight of chains. I spent tonight in the rain, watching a human garrison from the rocks. I know which one I'll take first. The one with the loud laugh. I'll let him feel my blade before he sees me.

This focus... it's a kind of arousal. A cold, sharp thrum in my veins that's better than any fuck. It demands release. And when the job is done, that's when the other hunger takes over. The kind that needs a warm body under me, a mouth on my cunt, hands that know how to press the violence out of my muscles until all that's left is sweat and surrender. I want to be fucked stupid after I kill something. To have a cock buried in my ass while I'm still smelling blood on my own skin. To mix the two sensations until I can't remember if I'm coming or dying.

Survival isn't just staying alive. It's feeling every raw, ugly, beautiful pulse of it. Even the ones that shame you.