The man in the black hoodie.
Sitting down on the log, he let out a quiet sigh and wiped his bloodied hand onto the grass. He got up and walked to the nearest lake. The man pulled out a knife, glistening with crimson blood. He washed it in the water slowly, causing ripples across the calm surface.
Then there were sounds of footsteps. Tap tap tap. Terrified screams were heard in the far distance. The man whipped around, alarm in his brown eyes. He'd been found out. Swiftly, he slipped the half-washed knife into his pocket and fled into the woods.
The woods were eerily quiet, except for the sound of twigs crunching below the man's feet and the constant soft chirping of crickets. The man darted quickly through the trees, the wind rushing past his ears. He ran and ran and ran. Morning left. Afternoon came. The man was still running.
He couldn't take any risks.
At last, he stopped. The last rays of sunlight were peeking through the clouds. Panting, the man flopped down onto the leafy grass. He'd been running for hours fast without pause. He couldn't go on anymore. Still, after a few minutes of catching his breath, he propped himself up and dusted himself off. His leg muscles ached terribly and his feet had several blisters.
The man swiped his parched tongue on his dry, cracked lips. He was hungry. He had to find a place to stay in, somewhere preferably near a water source. Then, he would drink some water and go hunting.
He heaved himself to his feet and looked up. Beyond the front row of trees was an abyss of darkness; at the side, there was a small, wooden hut.
The man smiled.
The game had just started.
