Eyes of the Hunt

Chapter One: The Fall of Normalcy

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Chapter One: The Fall of Normalcy

Every morning started the same.

Before the sun cracked over the skyline of Velmont City—a modest coastal metropolis nestled on the eastern edge of the United States—he was already up. Nathan Reyes, nineteen years old, stood barefoot in his dorm room, back straight, chest steady, eyes closed. The air was cold, stiff with the weight of early dawn. But it didn’t faze him. It never had. Not in years.

He inhaled sharply through his nose, slowly, deliberately, counting four seconds. Hold. Then exhaled through pursed lips.

Breathing exercises had always been Nathan’s way of grounding himself. Something he developed on his own, away from the noise of TikTok trends and YouTube tutorials. When he was younger, it helped soothe his anxiety. Now, it served a dual purpose—focus and control. He called them his “stillness drills” and practiced them religiously. They were more than just exercises. They were ritual. He believed that control over his breath could offer a semblance of control over his life, no matter how fleeting that control felt.

The room around him was dimly lit, the first slivers of dawn pushing through the blinds. The scent of last night’s incense still lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the sterile scent of laundry detergent. His body moved through fluid motions as he transitioned from breathwork to shadowboxing. Each jab was silent, each step purposeful. He was a student of movement, not violence. Not yet.

He wasn’t a trained fighter, and he’d never stepped into a ring. But he studied like one. He watched fights—underground recordings, professional matches, old kung fu films. But he didn’t just watch for entertainment. He dissected them. Memorized them. Absorbed them.

His attention to detail was something others often noticed. Professors complimented his ability to spot flaws in logic, to dissect complex texts. But it went beyond academics. Nathan could predict movement. Anticipate it. A man’s eyes darting too quickly, the twitch of a muscle—these were tells, and Nathan saw them all.

His body was fast. Not just athletic, but reactive. A gift, maybe. A curse, definitely. He had trained it for years, but never for anything real. Push-ups on bricks, balance drills on narrow ledges, sprinting uphill with breath held until his lungs screamed. He practiced slipping through narrow corridors with weighted packs, running across uneven terrain, and using his breath as a weapon—in through the nose, out through the mouth, until every muscle fiber was a spring loaded and waiting. Unconventional, painful, obsessive.

His discipline extended to diet, hydration, sleep, even how he walked. He was obsessed with speed—not just running, but the kind that lived in your nerves. In the split second it took to notice a change in your environment and react before it hit you. He read about samurai, special forces operatives, monks. If there was a breath technique or body mechanic out there, Nathan had studied it.

He also practiced breath control—techniques rooted in meditation, free diving, and old samurai breathing methods. He learned to slow his heart rate, to ground himself in the present. When anxiety struck, as it often did, he had tools. But tools can’t fix everything. Not when the world decides to break.

Classes had just wrapped up for the semester. Finals came and went. The university campus buzzed with students celebrating the end of stress, flooding off into their summer plans. Nathan kept to himself. No parties. No goodbyes.

He had his own plan.

A surprise visit home.

He hadn’t been home in months. Not since the beginning of the school year. He told himself it was because of work, because of discipline. But the truth was more fragile. He was afraid. Afraid of falling back into old comforts. Of losing momentum.

But this trip wasn’t about fear. It was about love.

His mother adored surprises. She’d once cried because he brought her favorite flowers unannounced. Mia, his sixteen-year-old sister, would shriek and jump into his arms. Hannah, his other sister, was eleven and already smarter than most adults he knew. Noah, the baby, only seven, would grab his leg and never let go. His father? Always reserved. But Nathan would catch the faintest smile whenever he came home.

He packed light. Just a duffel bag with some clothes, his old sketchpad, a few books, and a single envelope—one he planned to hand his mother. Inside was a small collection of notes, doodles, and a letter telling her how much he missed her.

He left the dorm around noon. Black hoodie, worn jeans, scuffed sneakers, a duffel bag over one shoulder. Lo-fi music hummed in his ears as the train rattled beneath him, a beat he had long since memorized. He leaned against the window, watching cities blur past, thoughts drifting to home-cooked meals and late-night laughter. He imagined the smell of his mother’s enchiladas, his siblings huddled around him as he shared campus stories.

The trip was long. Bus to train. Train to platform. Walk to neighborhood. The sky turned orange by the time Velmont Heights came into view.

The streets were exactly as he remembered. Cracked sidewalks. Yellowing lawns. The old willow tree on the corner swaying lazily.

But something was off.

He slowed as he reached his house. The porch light was off. The curtains were drawn. And the front door… It was open. Just slightly.

Nathan stopped at the curb, his breath catching. The air shifted, cool and stale. He stepped onto the lawn, his sneaker brushing against dry grass.

“Hello?” he called. “Mom? Dad?”

No answer.

He stepped inside slowly. The silence was thick, oppressive. It was the kind of silence that didn’t just feel empty—it felt wrong.

The smell hit him next. Metallic. Like rust. Like blood.

He moved through the house like a shadow, each step cautious. The living room was pristine. Too pristine. His mother’s knitting basket was missing. The family photo on the mantel was crooked.

His heart raced. He checked the kitchen. The bedrooms. The bathroom.

Nothing.

Then—a noise. Muffled. From the basement.

His eyes locked onto the basement door. It was slightly ajar. A dim light flickered below.

He didn’t want to move. But he did.

The creak of the door echoed through the house as he descended. Each step down was slower than the last, like time itself was resisting him. The air thickened. The temperature dropped. It was like descending into another world—a forgotten, horrifying underworld.

When he reached the bottom, his brain struggled to comprehend what he saw.

His family. Tied. Beaten. Bloodied.

His sisters’ faces were swollen, eyes barely open. His mother’s dress was torn, her face bruised. His father’s chest was caved in, breaths shallow. Noah… Noah wasn’t moving. A pool of blood stretched beneath his neck.

Nathan fell to his knees. His mind spiraled, unable to process. Anguish twisted through him, tearing at every nerve. But before he could move—

Laughter. From the corner.

Five men sat around a table, cigarette smoke curling into the air. One of them turned to him, grinning like it was all a game.

“Finally,” the man said. “We were wondering when you’d show.”

They stood. And advanced.

Nathan’s mind snapped. Fight or flight.

He ducked as the first man lunged. The second swung a pipe. Nathan slipped beneath it, bolting up the stairs. His legs pumped harder than they ever had. Each step was life or death. Adrenaline surged through him like fire. He didn’t look back.

Out the door. Into the night.

They chased him. Their footsteps pounded like war drums. He turned sharp corners, hurdled fences, crashed through hedges. The city became a blur of shadow and light. Streetlamps flickered overhead. Dogs barked. Somewhere, a car alarm blared.

Then—a hand. From the darkness. Yanked him sideways.

A door slammed. Darkness swallowed him.

A light snapped on.

He blinked.

A man stood in front of him. Older. Early forties. Lean build. Steely eyes. A calmness about him that didn’t fit the chaos. His jacket was military-style, clean but worn. He had the kind of presence that filled a room, even in silence.

He lit a cigarette. The smoke curled between them.

“I wasn’t expecting to meet you like this,” the man said.

Nathan’s breath shook. “Who the hell are you?”

The man didn’t answer. Not yet. He only smiled, smoke trailing from his lips.

“Someone who’s been waiting for you.”

[End of Chapter One]