The pavement is hard beneath my feet. Every footstep sounds like a gunshot, but I can’t slow down—no, that’d be death. I can feel my heartbeat in my throat and my stomach and my ears. Please, please, be quiet.

A left down an alleyway. I duck beside a dumpster, crouching low to the ground. I strain my ears for the sound of him—footsteps, a voice, the shifting of fabric. Every passing car puts me on edge. I hear voices, but none of them are his. Just other city-goers, oblivious to the hunt happening around them. Every noise sounds like danger, but I can’t overreact, I can’t run when it’s not time. If I did, I’d reveal my position, and that would be the end.

I look up at the sky. Even doing that feels like a mistake—what if that shift in weight is enough sound to alert him? Shouldn’t I stay still, play dead? But I look up anyway. Crows circle overhead.

I hit the pavement again. I need to create more distance. He’ll find me in that alley, and there’s not enough escape routes in such a small space. I run until I hit the big street, where I change tactics: camouflage. Slowly, slowly now. I keep pace with the crowd around me. How can he find one head amongst hundreds? I blend into one group in particular, mirroring their expressions, following their path. We end up in a bar.

Maybe I’ve lost him now. There’s too many people in the bar for him to act. Safety in numbers. I start to relax. Maybe that’s safer, even—the adrenaline rush and panic on my face were a dead giveaway, the mark of prey. I sit at the bar, order a drink. The crows I saw probably weren’t even him. No need for paranoia. My drink arrives, and I take a sip. Just what I needed. As the pressure melts away, a feeling of equal parts embarrassment and relief washes over me. I laugh.

Someone laughs with me, right beside my ear. I can barely feel their breath until it’s right against my throat.