The Trap Springs

The snap behind Alex was sharp, unmistakable the sound of deliberate movement breaking the forest's frozen silence. He turned swiftly, the rifle rising to his shoulder as his eyes scanned the darkness beyond the faint glow of the lantern.

The forest was alive now. The wind carried sounds it shouldn't: a faint shuffle of snow, the creak of branches, the whisper of something too close. Alex's heart raced, but his grip on the rifle remained steady. His breaths came slow, measured, frosting in the cold air.
Nothing moved.

And then, just beyond the edge of the firelight, he saw it, a flicker of motion. A figure crouched low among the trees, silhouetted by the faint glow of the lantern. Grayson.
Alex didn't call out this time. He moved toward the figure, his boots crunching softly in the snow, his finger hovering over the trigger.

"Stay ahead, Dane," a voice called out, clear and calm, cutting through the cold like a blade.
It came from behind him.

Alex spun, his breath catching. No one was there.

He turned back toward the figure gone. The clearing was empty again, the snow undisturbed. The lantern swung lazily on its branch, its glow casting long, wavering shadows across the ground.

Alex swore under his breath, stepping back toward the tree. The note he'd torn down fluttered in his hand, the words taunting him. "Not bad, Dane. But the night's just getting started."

The forest suddenly felt smaller, the trees pressing in. Alex's instincts screamed at him to move, to run, but he forced himself to think. Grayson was baiting him, controlling the rhythm of the hunt.

"Not this time," Alex muttered.

He pulled the lantern down and crushed it beneath his boot, snuffing out the light. The darkness closed in, but his eyes quickly adjusted. He shifted his pack, rechecking the rifle's safety, and moved deeper into the forest.

The First Assault

The trail was different now. Grayson's tracks were no longer careful, no longer deliberate. They were erratic, zig-zagging through the trees in a way that seemed hurried.

A mistake? Or another trap?

Alex kept moving, his steps slow and deliberate. Every shift in the snow beneath his boots was measured, every snap of a branch a potential threat.

Then, from the shadows, came a sound low and guttural.

A growl.

Alex froze, his grip tightening on the rifle. The sound came again, closer this time, reverberating through the trees. His eyes darted through the darkness, searching for the source, and then he saw them:
Eyes.

Glowing yellow eyes reflecting the faint light of the snow, low to the ground, moving in the shadows.

Wolves.

"Son of a" Alex's curse was cut off as the first one lunged.

He fired, the crack of the rifle echoing through the forest, and the wolf crumpled mid-leap. But the others were already moving, darting between the trees with impossible speed. Alex dropped to one knee, firing again and again, each shot precise, each shot counting.

The wolves weren't attacking at random. They were coordinated, driving him, herding him toward something.

Grayson.

Alex realized it a second too late. The wolves fell back suddenly, disappearing into the shadows as quickly as they'd come. Alex's rifle followed their retreat, his breath ragged, his body tense.

The forest was silent again, except for his own breathing.

And then he felt it, an almost imperceptible shift in the air behind him.

He turned sharply, but the blow came too fast. Something heavy slammed into his shoulder, sending him sprawling into the snow. His rifle skidded out of reach, and before he could recover, a figure stepped out of the shadows.

Grayson.

Face-to-Face

"Not bad," Grayson said, his voice calm and even as he stood over Alex. His face was shadowed, his eyes cold. He held a knife in one hand, its blade gleaming faintly in the moonlight.

Alex reached for his sidearm, but Grayson kicked it out of his hand before he could draw.
"Still alive," Grayson continued, his tone almost conversational. "That's impressive. Most of them don't make it past the first night."

Alex forced himself upright, his breath fogging the air as he stared Grayson down. "You've been expecting me."

Grayson smirked faintly, stepping back just out of reach. "They sent you, didn't they? Told you I was a threat. That I needed to be brought in. Dead or alive."

Alex didn't answer.

Grayson crouched, the knife dangling loosely in his hand. "Let me guess. They didn't tell you why. Just gave you a name, a face, and enough cash to keep you from asking questions."

"What's your point?" Alex growled.

"My point," Grayson said, leaning closer, "is that you're chasing the wrong man."

Alex tensed, his mind racing. "You killed people. You ran."

"I ran," Grayson said, his tone hardening. "But not from justice. From them. You've got no idea who you're working for, do you?"

Alex opened his mouth to respond, but Grayson cut him off.

"Don't worry," he said, straightening. "You'll figure it out. If you survive."

He turned abruptly, disappearing into the shadows as quickly as he'd appeared.

Alex scrambled to his feet, grabbing his rifle and spinning toward the direction Grayson had gone. But the forest was empty again, the tracks already disappearing beneath the falling snow.

The wolves' eyes glinted faintly in the distance before vanishing entirely.

The Retreat

Alex didn't stop moving. He didn't care if he was following Grayson's trail or doubling back on his own he just needed to get out of the open, to find cover, to regroup.

The forest seemed endless, the trees growing thicker, the cold more biting with each step. His body ached from the fall, his shoulder throbbing where Grayson's blow had landed.

By the time he found a rocky outcrop to shelter beneath, his breath was ragged, his hands trembling with cold and adrenaline. He dropped his pack, checking his supplies. One water bottle, a half-empty thermos, and a single flare.

Not enough.

His mind raced as he tried to piece together what Grayson had said. "You're chasing the wrong man." What the hell did that mean?

The snow began to fall heavier, blanketing the forest in a suffocating silence. Alex's fire barely took, its weak flames offering little warmth against the cold.

He sat with his back to the rocks, the rifle across his lap, and stared into the darkness.
Grayson wasn't just surviving out here. He was thriving. Hunting. And Alex wasn't sure anymore if he was the one in control of this chase.

The words from earlier flashed in his mind, as vivid as if they'd been carved into the snow again:

"Stay ahead, Dane."

But ahead of what?

The Morning After

When dawn broke, Alex wasn't sure if he felt relief or dread. The fire had long since died, leaving nothing but a faint wisp of smoke curling into the icy air.

The tracks around his camp weren't his own. Grayson had been there. Watching. Waiting.
And now, the real game had begun.