Benedict regretted the end of the chase. His quarry had run far and hidden well. Addicted to this reality, the challenge of his bloodsport, he focused instead on being rich.
He hopped the excrement-filled gutter, his pulse quickening. Ōschi. The rusted door shouldered aside, he drew his blade.
In the cold dark, a voice said, “Well played.”
Benedict spun, raising his sword. “The King commands your head.”
The quarry glowed unnaturally. “Crazy sim, no?”
Benedict frowned. What did he mean?
“You can have it. Wōdin completed my backup.”
Ōschi’s aura dimmed, and Benedict’s eyes widened. Ōschi’s cloak drifted down, empty.
Photograph is copyright Toni Verdú Carbó.
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