It was dark and cold. Large drops of water drummed onto the leaves of the trees but the forest gave no protection from the downpour. Everything was already soaked. The ground could no longer absorb water and turned into slippery mud within seconds. The man's heavy black combat boots sank well above his ankles in the mud. His boots left deep holes in the muddy ground that immediately filled with a mixture of mud and rainwater, chuckling. The world seemed gray and dreary. All vegetable life was covered over and over with brown-black mud and the man was hardly better off. He was soaked to the skin and the sharp wind drove the rain in gusts against his defenseless body. But he didn't care. He didn't feel any of this and there was a satisfied smile on his face. A smile that could make your blood run cold. He was on the hunt and his victim wouldn't last much longer.That was kind of a shame because he enjoyed the feeling that the hunt gave him a lot, no he was addicted to it. But even better was the moment when his victim looked directly into his cold eyes and suddenly he knew that he was going to die, and then, the brief moment, when the wild hope lit up again in the eyes and resistance to that The inevitable was achieved with forces that one should actually no longer have. And then he broke the resistance, the last hope, and that gave him a feeling of ecstasy that was indescribable. The rest was just a nuisance. Just this moment of absolute power and liberation, just this one brief moment barely the blink of an eye, was all he lived for. But it wasn't that time. The hunt was still going on. He wasn't quite sure of his prey yet. Because he had learned that, only when his prey lay helpless on the ground in front of him, only then had he won. And that was a good thing, because where's the fun?Only if you gave the selected prey enough leeway and a small chance to escape, only then could the whole indescribable experience of the hunt unfold. And he needed that kick. He'd had to go without it for too long. He could hardly stand it anymore. The man shuddered. But he was still in control. He wanted to enjoy this hunt to the full, every second, every moment. He couldn't risk an end too quickly, because months could pass before the next hunt. And during this time he had to be completely focused. Always vigilant, after all, he didn't want to make mistakes while choosing his next victim and maybe he would even take the risk and open up a new hunting ground. Yes, a new hunting ground would not be bad and was quite possible. He didn't want to be caught, let alone leave a recognizable pattern or a special handwriting. He also didn't crave recognition from others, or a certain fame.He did not need an audience, nor anyone to imitate him or hunt him. He didn't care who was already chasing him, who was looking for him. How many people have there been who, thanks to him, could no longer sleep peacefully at night? Who lived in constant fear. Who hated him. Who would love to do the same thing to him as to his victims, to his prey. But that was irrelevant at that moment. Now that he was so close to his victim. Near to reach. The rain had gotten even heavier now, as far as it was still possible. The forest thinned as he approached the edge of the forest. The hurricane-like winds now rushed on him from all sides. The floor was a single brown-black, slippery surface. But the monotonous landscape, which had been a field before the torrential rain, was interrupted by a faint red spot. Blood red as appropriate. He was no longer in control of himself. The mind switched itself off and the animal urge, its very essence, the instinct that is in everyone, took control of his thinking, his actions.



He would not be gracious today. No, he definitely wouldn't. His victim would have to suffer and he, he would enjoy every second of suffering.