𝙰𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚝𝚜𝚞

Aizetsu walked among the trees with an almost unsettling calm. Night had blanketed the forest in darkness, where the moonlight barely managed to pierce the branches, casting shadows that seemed to move of their own accord. The silence was profound, broken only by the sound of his footsteps on the damp earth and the soft rustle of his Yari as he walked.

He was searching for a human, though that night he didn't do so with true emotion or desperate hunger. It was more of a habit, an inevitable part of his existence. To him, humans were strange creatures: fragile, fleeting, full of feelings that made them suffer and yet cling to life with all their might.

The forest was a place where many lost their way. Some arrived by accident, others out of desperation, and some simply because they were searching for something they couldn't even name. Aizetsu had always thought it curious how humans feared getting lost in a forest, when most spent their entire lives trying to find their own path.

As he walked along the dirt path, his gaze lost among the trees, something caught his attention.

In the distance, a figure walked slowly. It wasn't running. It didn't seem to be escaping from anything. It was simply moving forward aimlessly, as if its own thoughts were heavier than the path beneath its feet.

Aizetsu stopped.

Her fingers tightened around her Yari as she silently watched the other person. There was something strange about seeing her walking like that, alone in the darkness. She seemed like a tiny spark of life trying to stay alive in a vast, indifferent world.

For a moment, Aizetsu saw not just prey.

He saw someone lost.

And perhaps that was the most curious thing about humans: even knowing that they could disappear at any moment, they kept walking forward, looking for a way out, an answer, or simply a new dawn.