The courtyard burned. Smoke curled through the air in long ribbons, swallowing the moonlight. The clash of steel and the hiss of gunfire filled the night like the heartbeat of a dying beast.
Kiprop pressed his back against the scorched wall, breathing slow, forcing the pain from his arm into silence. The bullet had only grazed him, but the blood made his grip slick. He tore a strip of cloth from his sleeve and wound it tightly around the wound, pulling until it bit into the flesh.
He flexed his fingers — still steady. Still good enough to kill.
Soares' boots echoed across the cracked stones. The man moved with deliberate calm, his rifle resting loosely at his side, eyes scanning the smoke.
"Come now," Soares called out. "You are well trained, I'll grant you that. But running won't save you. You're not the first man I've hunted, nor will you be the last."
Kiprop stepped into the open, blades in hand. "You've never hunted me."
