Through the dark, wet grass, I crouched low, moving slowly—silently—desperate to find you. The cold bit at my skin, but I kept going, careful to avoid the gleam of deadly, sharpened bear traps scattered like the teeth of some ancient beast.

My only focus: getting a light on. Anything to push back the cold, merciless darkness.

Still nothing.

Then—wait. I see something… no—someone.

“Killerkid, is that you?!” I try to shout, but my voice betrays me. It’s gone—ripped from me, maybe from all the screaming, begging for someone—anyone—to help. To pull me off that hook that had been buried deep in my chest, cracking bone and spirit alike.

I can't speak. Can barely breathe. But I walk closer, drawn to the shape I hope is you.

Then it happens.

A blur of motion. A makeshift, jagged blade tears through me. The one they call Trapper delivers the final blow. As my life bleeds out into the soil and I fall into the open jaws of hell, I hear your voice—faint, echoing—the last thing you ever said to me:

"I'll be right back."

Thanks, buddy.
@killerkid2