I stumble, my back hitting a rough tree trunk. I press on my wound, a searing trail across my abdomen, the warm blood seeping through my fingers before the torrential rain instantly washes it away. The pain is a cold shock, but I barely register it. My focus is entirely on the man standing over me.
The tracker, enjoying his moment of triumph, levels his pistol at me. "You were so arrogant," he sneers, his voice carrying easily through the downpour. "Walked like you were above me." He takes a slow, deliberate step forward, relishing my trapped state.
"What was it that you called me that night when you gave me this ugly scar?" the man asks, his tone turning venomous.
I stare blankly. I honestly don't even remember who this man is, lost in the countless anonymous faces of rivals and underlings I've dealt with.
