The interior of Hansen's truck smelled of things that made Darien's skin crawl, old coffee, gun oil, and the sharp, metallic tang of silver-nitrate rounds. For a Beastman who had spent the last decade surrounded by Italian leather and expensive sandalwood, the cramped, vibrating cabin of the Hunter's vehicle was a sensory nightmare.
Darien sat in the passenger seat, his massive frame barely contained by the bucket seat. His head was tipped back against the headrest, his eyes still washed in that terrifying, milky-white "Feral Sight." Every bump in the road felt like a physical strike to his nervous system, the lingering effects of the sonic emitters in the Vale still rattling his brain like glass in a jar.
