The hunter weaves through the busy street as they pursue their target at a distance. It’s easy to blend into the crowd in the chaos of the night market, more difficult to dodge the stall owners hawking their goods, but the hunter manages just fine.

The man—a predator—had been disrespected in the bar. It was the sort of place that has sawdust on the floor and rooms to hire by the hour upstairs. He was already drunk when the young woman he was talking to rebuffed his advances. He followed when he saw her leave, and now he weaves the streets, anger smouldering in his eyes.

The smell of cooked meat fills the man’s nostrils, causing his mouth to salivate. There will be time for food later, for now he has a purpose and a direction.

He angles his shoulders, narrowly avoiding a street performer’s waved baton, but it doesn’t dissuade him. Neither does the beggar he nearly trips over. Nor the tourist, too absorbed in the unfamiliar sights and sounds, that nearly collides with him. He knows where he’s going.

The man ducks down a shadowy alleyway that smells of piss and rotting food. Rats speak and scatter before him as his heavy footsteps echo off the red brick walls.

It’s too easy. Far far too easy. The man doesn’t even realise his mistake until the hunter draws the blade across his neck.