Wren Prizzi has the killer in her sights, but in the heart of the dark woods, the hunter just became the prey.
Writer’s Prompt
The humidity in the park clung to Wren Prizzi like a cheap suit she couldn’t return. Every step into the dense brush felt like wading through wet wool. She’d trailed the Phantom for six blocks, watching that distinctive, uneven gait—the predator who had eluded the precinct for months.
Then, the shadows swallowed him.
Wren stopped, her lungs burning with the scent of damp earth and rot. The silence was a physical weight until the voice cut through it, cold and dry as bone.
“You looking for me?”
She spun. He was a pillar of darkness, 6′2′′ of jagged edges and lethal intent. He didn’t have a weapon—just a silk scarf pulled taut between two massive, gloved hands. The fabric groaned under the tension.
Wren’s hand flew to her holster, her fingers brushing the cold checkered grip of her Smith & Wesson. But her jacket caught. A split-second snag. A heartbeat of failure.
He lunged.
The scarf didn’t go for her neck; it went for her eyes. Wren felt the rough silk snap across her face, blinding her as she was driven backward into the mud. She kicked out, her heel catching something solid, but he was a mountain of muscle pressing down. Her gun cleared the holster, but his weight pinned her wrist to the muck.
The metal felt a mile away. Her vision was a blur of black silk and moonlight. She could feel his hot, ragged breath against her ear as he whispered, “Close your eyes, Prizzi. It’s easier that way.”
Her finger found the trigger. He found her throat.
The hammer cocked with a metallic click that sounded like a funeral bell.
Finish the Story
Does Wren pull the trigger in time, or does the Phantom finally claim the one hunter who got too close? The city is waiting for an answer. How does this standoff end?