That same drizzling night, Layla walked along the sidewalk, the flow of cars rushing beside her—crossing the bridge beneath the glow of streetlights as she moved near a row of iron benches, far from the city. She heard nothing but the deafening roar of engines and the constant blare of horns.
That freezing night, she was barefoot, her heels clutched in her right hand with every step, the backs of her feet wounded from chafing. She ignored the cold pavement numbing her soles until she reached the edge of the railing and bowed her head, staring down at the sea below.
Cars passed behind her—she only wiped her tears away, lifted her gaze to the sky, took a deep breath, and hurled the heels into the ocean one by one while letting out a guttural cry into the air. Her breath turned visible in the icy night, gasping between sobs as tears slid down her cheeks, until she dropped to her knees; hands gripping the railing, head lowered.
Then she inhaled deeply, stepped up onto the bench beside her, and screamed again with all her strength—longer this time. She panted, breaking apart that melancholic weight inside her, before climbing down and continuing on her way.
Over the next two and a half hours, she crossed to the other end of the bridge on bare feet—feeling the cold air bite and dampen the skin of her face, heavier than she had imagined; made worse by the winter that would arrive in just weeks.
Soon after, she felt the cool, wet grass beneath her feet. The steady breeze brushed against her like a gentle, fresh caress as she walked beneath the arch of trees that night.
She tied her hair back with a claw clip as she walked, carefully avoiding stones along the path so as not to hurt herself.
From a distance—she lifted her gaze and slowly lowered her arms, narrowing her eyes to focus on a figure visible ahead: dark, indistinct, and moving toward her.
A tall body that seemed to walk slowly, as if burdened by weight.
Something else caught her attention: the skin of his face appeared stained a deep carmine.
And the closer he came through the night, the more she could almost hear it—the labored breathing, and the dragging of something wet.
She froze in terror, eyes wide open. Her body refused to move—unable to run or even hide.
Suddenly checking her clothes and the pockets of her sweater, panic surged as she searched for her phone to make an emergency call. But she couldn't find it—couldn't feel it anywhere.
That tall, shadowy figure drew closer still. Layla was left with no option to flee—she glanced around, breath ragged, searching desperately for a place to hide.
Until she spotted a wide bush beside two trees and threw herself inside without hesitation, ignoring the sharp sting of thorns piercing her skin.
She couldn't even adjust herself—hearing the footsteps draw nearer, she covered her mouth and went still; peering through the branches at the dark figure just a few meters away.
The scent of iron began to rise, choking her—warm and suffocating. Layla tensed, trembling.
She feared he was a killer. A murderer.
She couldn't tell what those wet bodies were that he dragged behind him—only that they reeked.
The man slowly turned—listening, watching the leaves rustle.
…Perhaps just the wind.
But something was undeniably there.
The hunter assumed it was only an animal trapped in the brush—a hare. He released the rope slung over his shoulder, letting the deer he had dragged fall heavily to the ground.
He lifted his chin without taking his eyes off the bush; stepping forward slowly, breathing deep and controlled as he drew a hunting knife from beneath his cloak, from his belt.
Inside, she couldn't stop trembling as she kept her hands over her mouth, silently begging him to leave.
Then a metallic sound rang out.
Through the branches she saw what looked like a knife lifted, its blade flashing in the night light. Her eyes widened further in terror.
—¡¡¡W-Wait!!! ¡Please, wait! —she shouted, bursting out and standing upright. She raised her hands in a desperate gesture for him to stop, her face twisted with fear and desperation.
Breathing hard, she trembled, shoulders hunched—placing one foot back defensively.
That was when she saw him clearly, up close: the man was smeared with blood. Not only his face, but his clothes as well—mostly damp and… foul-smelling.
She also noticed what he carried: animals he had hunted.
She had thought they were other bodies.
Relief washed over her when she realized they were only animals.
A breeze passed between them, lightly stirring the damp strands of hair falling over the man's forehead. The edges of his dark gray coat fluttered with the wind.
The man loosened his grip on the hilt, lowering the weapon slowly; his eyes still fixed on her as he tried to understand the situation without saying a word.
He glanced aside briefly, as if assessing the surroundings—not out of fear, but calculation—then fixed his gaze on her again.
He took one step closer. His movements were slow. Imposing.
Threatening even in stillness.
She pursed her lips in disgust, shoulders tilting as she swallowed hard and took a sudden step back—still frightened of the stranger.
Seeing her recoil when he stepped forward, the man halted as well.
But she only tensed further, shivers running through her as she raised her hands again.
—Wait… Y-You..- —she paused— No... I mean… —she swallowed, glancing away briefly before meeting those eyes again.
Eyes that seemed clearer than his blood-darkened face. Eyes that were terrifying in their stillness, rarely blinking, observant... a blue she didn't often see.
—...You're not going to kill me… are you? —she asked, still trembling.
The man said nothing, but only stared.
Layla grew more uncomfortable, stepping back again, careful not to put weight on her injured heel from the shoes she had thrown away hours earlier.
It was terrifying. Stranger still that he said nothing—his silence made him even more frightening. Especially with that gaze.
All she could think was that he looked unnatural and chilling in the low night light—worse still, smeared with blood.
A sharp, icy, arrogant stare as she stood before him.
As she continued stepping backward—slow and cautious—while he remained still, she glanced sideways from time to time, searching for an escape.
—W-Well then, I… —she said, glancing down at the ground, brushing leaves from her sweater.
Her eyes shone blue, like a midday sky, bright and colorful—striking against the darkness of the night.
—I'll go then… If… that's alright. —a slight pause—. May you excuse me… —she murmured, hurried and subdued.
Embarrassed, she turned on her heels, ready to leave, shoulders still trembling; limping slightly as she clumsily adjusted her sweater.
But when she took her first step away, a voice reached her from behind.
She froze at the sound, stopping with her back to him.
-----------
Desmond did not respond.
He showed no sign of surprise or confusion at her screams—though he felt them, he did not reflect it.
Nor was he disturbed by her sudden emergence from the bushes.
He simply observed her.
His eyes—sharp and cold as a dagger's edge—remained fixed on her.
She stepped back when he tried to approach.
He had wanted to look closer—more of, because she had a scratch on her cheek. But stopped when he saw how she recoiled.
Not out of concern.
Out of instinct.
…Everyone recoiled.
When she spoke—trembling, stammering—he still said nothing.
He scanned her from head to toe as if she were a foreign creature to the forest: out of place, undesirably fragile for an environment steeped in shadows, dry branches, and the scent of iron.
His gloved hand tightened slightly around the knife at his side.
He felt… irritation.
Not at her—but at that reaction.
And something strange twisted in his chest: the growing resentment of being feared.
There was a kind of curiosity within him. Perhaps intrigue. Observation. Doubt. Or maybe—caprice.
Lowering his gaze slightly and tilting his head, he watched her tremble as she spoke—his stare sharpening further as it contrasted with her eyes.
Desmond's were an arctic blue.
The scent of blood still clung to his shirt when she made that expression of disgust.
He understood why.
His gloves were stiff with dried blood. And on his face, traces still streaked from cheekbone to jaw, making his eyes stand out even more.
His entire face was stained with a dull, dried crimson.
He regarded her as if she were an absurd, irritating hallucination.
As if those vivid blue eyes—so unlike his own—were an insult to him, to the gray, lifeless landscape surrounding them.
Worse still.
They were identical to his mother's.
Ridiculously vivid.
A color that stood out more than his own.
Unlike his eyes: piercing, cold, too pale—dangerously sharp and feral.
Yet he did not approach. Nor did he look away.
He didn't even blink when she raised her voice or asked if he would kill her.
Clearly a stupid question that he found utterly absurd.
His eyes merely narrowed slightly, as if reading something beneath her words—something beyond fear.
When she tried to end the encounter and turned to leave, Desmond didn't respond right away. Not even asked who she was, or what she was doing there.
He just watched her turn away—retreating clumsily, afraid.
Arched a brow in brutal stillness—an immaculate immobility.
Left alone again, he shifted his gaze, fixing it on the path he had come from.
The knife was sheathed in an almost imperceptible motion.
He took up the rope again, dragging the deer as though nothing had happened.
As if that desperate, human figure had never existed.
But his eyes—just for a fraction of a second—turned his slightly head back to her.
The city still glimmered in the distance. And the cold, without warning, felt sharper.
Then he spoke.
His voice—low, rough, breaking through the wind—just enough to reach her.
—You're far from the city. —he inhaled slowly— And you're bleeding. —he almost murmured.
It wasn't aggressive. Nor was it kind.
Layla stopped short the moment she heard him a few steps away. Her heart skipped a beat.
She turned her head slightly, slowly, glancing over her shoulder—confused.
—...What? —she replied softly.
Desmond lifted his chin, indicating with his gaze.
His eyes, now more visible, were glacial—almost unreal.
Cold.
Sharp.
As if nothing human lived within them.
—Your legs. —he answered—. Your hurt... You've cut yourself. —he added.
She lowered her gaze hesitantly, hair falling forward as she looked down at her feet.
Only then did she notice it—through her torn stockings, her skin was scratched and irritated, thin red lines marking where thorns and rough ground had cut her.
She looked up, tucking her hair behind her ear to meet his eyes.
—Ah, yes… —she murmured, awkwardly touching her leg— It's nothing… Really..
He took a step forward.
Just one. Only by trying to do something about it; but it was enough to make her tense.
Still, Desmond did not seem threatening.
Only… mercilessly calm.
As if chaos, fear, and cold could not touch him—yet his jaw tightened slightly.
Annoyed in silence.
Without another word, he turned away, heading back the way he had came from. Pulling the rope again, the deer dragging behind him with a sticky, viscous sound.
Layla grimaced at the noise, but watched him. Her breathing slowed—less fear now, more confusion.
¿Who was he?
¿Why had he spoken to her like that?
Almost as if he cared or understood.
And why did he look so… lost?
—Are you from around here? —she asked, summoning courage. Firm, but cautious.
Desmond turned his head slowly over his shoulder, though not completely. Moonlight traced the sharp line of his profile.
There she saw him more clearly—blood-stained, yet illuminated by the moon.
A perfect face, elegant and striking, framed by hardness. A sculpted jaw, sharp nose.
Though serious, marked faintly by sleepless nights or old memories, his expression felt hollow. Empty.
She blinked twice—more startled by his voice than by his answer.
—No. — he answered firmly.
—I'm not from here. —he replied.
Still watching her, he added at last:
—I live… on the other side of the forest.
He said no more.
He looked at her one last time, then turned fully away, walking on as the hunted deer dragged behind him like a heavy shadow.
Layla didn't know why, but it left her breathless—not just from fear. Curious by the answer he has given her:
"Other side of the forest"
But... How far?—wondered.
It was as if she had briefly crossed paths with something that should not exist in this world.
A man made of ice, flesh, and invisible scars.
And in his hand, the rope pulled taut as his silhouette vanished once more among the dark trees.