Humanities weakness.
You click the trigger, and your rifle roars to life. The recoil sends your arm back, your ears ringing as the sharp scent of metal and gunpowder fills the freezing air. You steady your aim, expecting the beast to drop, but what you see instead sends a chill down your spine.
The creature is gone—vanished. Only a faint, glistening trail of blood stains the snow, leading toward the trees. Your heart pounds as you cautiously step forward, your breath visible in the cold air.
Then, movement.
Your eyes dart to the tree line, and there it is. The beast stumbles through the trees, its enormous frame swaying unnaturally. Its head—where you had fired—now spurts blood, the wound grotesque and gaping. Yet, somehow, impossibly, it’s still moving.
Your grip tightens around the rifle as the beast stops and slowly turns to face you. Its glowing eyes burn with something beyond rage—something primal, something relentless.
A sickening realization creeps into your mind: if a shot to the head didn’t kill it, what will?
Your instincts scream at you to run, to escape while you still can.
But another part of you—perhaps the foolish, desperate part—wants to raise the rifle again and finish what you started.
What do you do? Do you fire another shot, hoping to finally put the beast down?
Or do you turn and run, praying you’re fast enough to escape?
The creature is gone—vanished. Only a faint, glistening trail of blood stains the snow, leading toward the trees. Your heart pounds as you cautiously step forward, your breath visible in the cold air.
Then, movement.
Your eyes dart to the tree line, and there it is. The beast stumbles through the trees, its enormous frame swaying unnaturally. Its head—where you had fired—now spurts blood, the wound grotesque and gaping. Yet, somehow, impossibly, it’s still moving.
Your grip tightens around the rifle as the beast stops and slowly turns to face you. Its glowing eyes burn with something beyond rage—something primal, something relentless.
A sickening realization creeps into your mind: if a shot to the head didn’t kill it, what will?
Your instincts scream at you to run, to escape while you still can.
But another part of you—perhaps the foolish, desperate part—wants to raise the rifle again and finish what you started.
What do you do? Do you fire another shot, hoping to finally put the beast down?
Or do you turn and run, praying you’re fast enough to escape?