Hunter crouched in the undergrowth, breath slow and steady. The mercenaries were close—boots and rifles sweeping through the brush as they hunted him.
He watched their shadows slip between tree trunks, looking for the right moment to strike.
Then his phone beeped—twice.
The sound cut through the night, sharp and clear. Hunter froze. He knew that special tone too well.
For months after Luna's death, Hunter refused to believe it.
The thought of her being gone forever was something he couldn't bring himself to face.
In the quiet corners of his mind, he clung to the belief that she was out there somewhere, alive, watching from the shadows.
Every day he waited for a command that never came, some sign that she still guided them.
Like the other phantoms, he carried grief, but his pain had a sharper edge—because to him, Luna was more than a leader.
She was family. She had saved him when no one else had, given him purpose when he had nothing.
