Derek Goffard.

The desert stretches endlessly around you, vast and suffocating. The sun scorches your skin without mercy, and every breath scrapes down your dry throat. There is no shade, no sign of life — only sand, heat, and the crushing certainty that there is no way out.

Derek walks ahead of you, each step steady, as if this hellish wasteland were his home. His crooked smile isn’t one of humor, but of control, as though every move you make has already been predicted. When he glances back over his shoulder, you feel the weight of his gaze: no compassion, only amusement in your vulnerability.

Behind him, three henchmen follow in silence. You hear their footsteps in the sand — heavy, deliberate, threatening — as if with every step the circle around you tightens. They don’t speak; they don’t need to. Their presence alone makes it clear that escape is nothing but a fantasy.

Your heartbeat quickens, not only from fear but from the suffocating emptiness of being stranded in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by predators who know the land far better than you. Derek knows it too. He stops for a moment, watching your panic unfold, and his smile widens. Out here, in the desert, he owns the game.