Gandaska City never whispered—it screamed. Built on the ruins of lost empires and ambition, its skyline was a jagged wound of steel and concrete.
Rooftops bristled with antennas and snipers. Alleys wept rust, the stench of decay and piss thick enough to taste. Neon signs flickered like dying heartbeats, casting sickly pink and green across faces that had forgotten hope. Two things kept its citizens breathing: get rich or die trying.
For Shanazer, the third rule applied: run. And she had. Her name wasn't spoken in the streets—it was spat. Hunted. Hated. A walking, bleeding vault with a two-billion-dollar target strapped to her life. No one knew exactly why that bounty was on her head. But in a city like Gandaska, why didn't matter.
🌧️ The Forest — One Hour Outside the Eastern Slums
Rain slashed through the thick canopy like a whip, each drop cold as a blade. The forest groaned as wind twisted the old trees, their bark weeping sap that smelled of rot and earth.
Every leaf glistened with dread. Shanazer's breaths came in desperate gulps—ragged, burning, never enough air. Her boots slipped in the mire, blood mixing with mud on her knees. Her hands stung from white thorns embedded deep, and her pulse hammered so hard she could feel it in her teeth, her temples, her fingertips.
THWIP—THWIP—THWIP.
Three arrows hissed from the darkness.
She ducked instinctively, but a gnarled root caught her ankle and threw her down. The impact punched the air from her lungs. Her ribs screamed. One arrow struck the tree above her head with a meaty thunk, the others vanished into foliage.
"Get up… or die," she hissed to herself.
Her body begged her to stay down—muscles quivering, vision swimming. Her will refused.
She scrambled upright, heart thrashing like a caged animal.
And from the shadows, three hunters emerged.
🏹 Drago: The Relentless
He crouched in the canopy, eyes narrowed to a slit. Wolf-like. Skin like ironwood bark. His breathing was controlled—four counts in, hold, four counts out—even as his heart thumped steady and slow in his chest. He barely moved as he drew back his blackened bowstring, feeling his pulse in his fingertips where they touched the fletching.
'She doesn't breathe right. Her rhythm's broken. Injured. Good. Less fun if it's too easy.'
' But something about her… reminds me of someone I knew. Before…'
' No. Don't remember. Just shoot.'
"I'm the one who takes her," Drago growled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in his throat. "No stray arrows in my hunt."
💰 Dexter: The Opportunist
He grinned behind a soaked scarf, crouched beside a mossy rock. His heart raced—not from fear, but greed. Pure, electric greed that made his fingers twitch and his breath come quick and shallow.
'Three million? That's more zeroes than my mama could count. Gods rest her soul—or not.'
'Let Drago loose the first one. I'll tail and clean up. Let the big wolf break the bushes, I'll bag the prey.'
"You? Heh. I'll settle for four mill—winner takes it," Dexter smirked, knocking his own arrow to the string. His palms were slick with rain and sweat.
🎯 Aragon: The Precisionist
Clean-shaven. Eyes like glass. Calculating. He stood tall despite the rain, wiping droplets from his face like they offended him.
His heartbeat was a metronome—slow, measured, professional. He exhaled once, long and controlled, feeling his pulse settle into that perfect stillness before the shot.
'This is beneath me. A wounded girl in a cursed forest. But money... money rewrites pride.'
'A heartbeat. That's all I need. A twitch in the leaves and—'
He tilted his head, listening past the rain for the sound of her breathing.
"Gentlemen," he said softly. "Let's make this interesting."
Three arrows loosed like thunder.
Shanazer: The Flame that Wouldn't Die
Pain. Pure, red, crawling agony. Her body screamed with every step—muscles tearing, lungs burning, heart slamming against her ribs so hard she thought it might crack them. But she ran, limbs shaking, vision blurred by rain and blood and the tunnel vision of pure survival instinct.
She zigzagged through the trees, every breath searing like inhaling glass. Behind her, death hissed on feathered wings. Her pulse roared in her ears, drowning out everything but the primal command: move, move, MOVE.
Then—lightning cracked.
She slipped.
And fell.
The cliff opened beneath her like a throat. For one breathless moment, she was weightless—suspended between earth and sky. Then gravity seized her and she plummeted, air shrieking past her ears, her stomach lurching into her chest.
'Is this how it ends? Finally.'
' No mourners. No past. No name even. Only me and this—'
She slammed into an outcropping of rock and thick branches twenty feet down.
The impact was a detonation of white-hot pain. Her shoulder crunched. Her head snapped back. The world exploded into stars and darkness, her vision fracturing like shattered glass. She tumbled, branches clawing at her, until she landed hard on a narrow ledge, half her body dangling over the edge.
She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't move.
And in that dazed, broken space between consciousness and oblivion, a memory detonated in her mind like a bolt of lightning.
---
Six years ago.
A crisp, wind-kissed evening. The golden glow of sunset spilled lazily through the curtains, painting the room in hues of amber and coral.
She sat curled on the edge of a velvety couch, the fabric soft and warm beneath her bare legs. The flickering light of an animated series danced across her wide eyes. The air was calm, scented faintly with lavender from the oil burner humming in the corner—that sweet, herbal smell that always meant home, safety, peace.
BANG!
The door shuddered violently against its frame. She jolted upright, heart rocketing into her throat, the sudden spike of adrenaline making her hands shake. Her eyes flew to the door just as it slammed shut behind the figure.
Her father.
He bolted the door with trembling fingers, his back pressed against it as if holding something monstrous at bay. His chest heaved in ragged bursts, each breath a desperate gasp.
Sweat shone along his brow despite the coolness of the evening, soaking through his collar. A thick folder clutched in one blood-slick hand trembled under the grip of panic.
She froze—her breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat. He was never like this. Her father was the quiet in every storm.
The anchor when life howled. But now... his eyes were too wide, too wild. His hands shook. His jaw clenched so tight she could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin.
Slowly, she reached for the remote, silencing the TV. The room fell into a charged stillness, the only sounds his desperate breath and the ticking wall clock.
"Father?" Her voice cracked under the strain of fear, small and childlike in a way she hadn't sounded in years. Her throat felt tight, her mouth dry. "Are you alright?"
He didn't reply. His eyes darted toward unseen ghosts, unfocused, haunted. Then—he limped forward. Only now did she notice the blood trailing behind him with every step, dark and wet against the pale wood floor. She stifled a gasp, rushing forward, her palms outstretched and trembling.
"Father, you're bleeding!"
But he dropped to his knees before her, his left hand firm on her shoulder despite its tremor. His palm was warm—feverishly warm—and slick with sweat and blood. She could feel his fingers digging in, not to hurt, but to anchor himself. To anchor her.
His face was a map of anguish and urgency. His eyes—those eyes that had always looked at her with such gentle pride—now burned with something desperate and terrified.
He looked at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered. Like his wounds, his pain, the blood pooling beneath him—none of it existed compared to her.
"Princess, listen carefully," he rasped. Each word was a struggle, torn from lungs that could barely breathe. His breath smelled of copper and fear.
'Everything I've done for nine years… it's all for her. She must survive. She is the future.'
He hesitated, his jaw working, his eyes squeezing shut for just a moment as if the choice before him was a physical weight crushing his chest. To protect her was to condemn her to a life of shadows. But to withhold it was worse.
Then, from within the blood-streaked folder, he drew out a pill—deep violet edged in cobalt blue. Its scent burst into the room like ozone before a storm, sharp and electric. It tingled in the air, prickling at her skin, making the hair on her arms stand on end. Shanazer staggered back slightly, drawn by its pull, unsettled by its allure. Her heart began to race for reasons she didn't understand.
"I need you to take this. Now."
She blinked at him, brow furrowed, confusion blooming in her eyes. Her voice came out small, uncertain. "What is it?"
But before he could answer—
A roar shook the walls. Airships. Engines screamed from overhead, the skies growling like a beast unleashed. The house shook, windows rattling in their frames as a blinding light poured through the cracks, white and searing.
Her father's face drained of what little color remained. His grip on her shoulder tightened until it hurt. Pure, primal fear flashed across his features—not for himself, but for her. His eyes were wide, his pupils blown, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps.
"Take it NOW!" he shouted, the sound cracking with desperation, with love, with terror.
---
She snapped back to the present.
Pain. Everywhere. Her shoulder was on fire, her head pounding, her vision swimming. She was still falling.
Above, voices. The hunters.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.