“TangTangTang”A sharp gunshot rang out. Though the sound echoed from a distance, it jolted me upright in fright. A chill ran down my neck. I knew that the more I ran, the more I would fuel George’s (조지, George) excitement. Recognizing that this was exactly what George wanted did nothing to still my legs—I had to keep moving, shaking off the fear that clung to my ankles. Even if I were caught, I wanted to keep running.My nose stung. I clenched my molars and broke into a run again. My breath came in ragged gasps; my chest felt as if it were being ripped apart. I tore through the dark forest, reckless, my face—and worse, my hands and arms—scraped raw. Thorny vines snagged my ankles; branches that caught on my clothes whipped against my skin, leaving stinging wounds. Every time I dared pause to catch my breath, another gunshot rattled my eardrums.The beaters had already entered the woods. Their gunshots drove me onward, like beasts herding prey into a trap. They were hunting me—hunting a human. Blinded by darkness, I groped forward until I tripped over a tree root and tumbled down. My ankle twisted, caught between rocks.“Ugh! Huh, ughh, uuh…”A scream escaped me. I wrenched my ankle free from the gravel; the pain was excruciating, though thankfully no bones were broken—just a bad sprain. As I hobbled upright, a crunch of leaves sounded very close. My heart froze.Had they heard me scream?My chest tightened. No other sound followed. I held my breath, listening. Wait. And then… another rustle. Not as close as I’d feared—there was still distance. But if I ran now, I’d give myself away with noise. So I crept forward, step by cautious step, until I could slip, silent, beneath a bush by a boulder.I exhaled quietly, holding still. Nothing moved. Perfect silence. Gunshots echoed distantly—but that was it. Maybe I’d imagined the footsteps… maybe it was just an animal.No. Not an animal. I knew instinctively. That was a person. Someone was stalking me. In this situation, I had to assume the worst. I stilled my breath and lay motionless in the undergrowth.Crunch… crunch.Leaves whispered underfoot again, growing nearer. I held my breath. A red glow blinked on the tracker strapped to my wrist. I peered through the faint moonlit veil beyond the bush, blinking my eyes. Cold sweat dripped down my temples.Soon, I glimpsed a pair of shoes. Human shoes. I stared without blinking. They crept forward, stepping softly on leaves, and paused at the bush. I crouched like the dead, the pain in my ankle forgotten. The shoes drifted back and forth before me, circling slowly, and finally retreated. They vanished from view. I blinked in relief. A dry swallow. Just as I exhaled… another rustle sounded.Someone pressed flat against the bush, locking eyes with me from beneath its leaves.We froze, staring at each other. It was Jerome (제롬, Jerome), flattened on the leaf–strewn ground, his expression unreadable. He did not smile as usual. In the moonlit mottling, his green eyes shimmered—cold and alien, like a reptile’s. He stared without blinking, like a snake waiting to strike, like a crocodile poised for prey at the edge of a swamp.In that moment, I was swept up in a gale before a storm. Suddenly, Jerome and I were in the Bluebell swamp once more, facing each other. On the eve of the storm, he had chased me on horseback as if hunting. When I thought I’d escaped, he charged after me; when I felt caught, he reined in his horse; when I ran again he laughed like a madman—and at last we reached the swamp.He had meant to kill me then—me, George and Hugh’s dog. Yet at the final moment, he stopped himself. Now I faced the unmasked Jerome, his face hidden before by backlighting.He studied me in unfamiliar silence, then, silently as a snake, rose to his feet. I saw his hand slide from the ground. Leaves rustled, then faded as he walked away. Jerome left.A gunshot pierced the night once more, wrenching me from the bush. I scrambled free and spotted a silvery object glinting in the leaf litter where Jerome’s hand had rested. Brushing the leaves aside revealed a small key. I instantly recognized it—it fit the tracker on my wrist. I turned the key, heard the click of metal, and the tracker fell away. I stared at my liberated wrist, then, furious, threw the device aside.Limping, I dashed madly away in the opposite direction Jerome had taken. Pain flared in my ankle as though it would give way, but I gritted my teeth and ran on—ran until my speed faltered, my steps grew vacant, and I finally stopped.The tracker.I turned back slowly. In the darkness ahead, the tracker lay on the ground, its red light pulsing. I limped back, retrieved the bracelet, shoved it into my pocket, and started moving again, a hopping gait.Another sharp gunshot rang out behind me. The shots relentlessly herded me along. I didn’t resist; I walked on. The forest remained shrouded in that same oppressive darkness, each shot causing branches to tremble with a sinister whisper. Yet I no longer feared the dark—it felt as though it concealed me.I tucked into the shadows, arm raised, moving forward. George was right: hunting is like hide-and-seek. The prey can hide and watch the hunter, but the hunter cannot hide.Even as I limped through the woods, I kept my arm extended, fingertips grazing the air. At last, my hand snagged exactly what I’d been seeking: the snare. The very trap that had nearly claimed me on my last escape now lay impotent in my grasp. They had driven me into another snare, but this time, no one would catch me.Holding the snare’s loop, I gazed up at its circular opening. Another chance to flee. A chance to escape brilliantly, without letting my guard down.I stood statue-still until multiple gunshots echoed once more. Then I decided not to take the chance.Recalling where I’d first found the snare, I circled back and spotted three or four more in the vicinity. I fished the pocketknife I’d been hiding in my shoe from my pocket. Though the blade was dull, it was enough to cut rope. I sliced through one snare’s cord, coiled it around my waist, and returned to the original snare. There, I tossed the tracker beneath it and paused. Where should I wait for the hunter?Leaves rustled—no insects stirred in this forest. It seemed only we and ghosts remained. Holding my breath, I concealed myself behind a tree, the rope coiled in my hand, awaiting the hunter coming to check his trap. My mind cleared; my racing heart calmed and vision sharpened. Memories of the battlefield resurfaced: hidden in dust, enduring—enduring the boredom and fear—until the enemy appears at the precise moment.Branches creaked underfoot.Leaning against a tree, I watched the darkness. Beyond the trunk, someone crept forward—never looking my way. Though silent and cautious, he was the hunter; no prey could move more stealthily than its hunter.When the man passed the tree, I turned and attacked. I threw the rope around his neck and jerked tight. I plunged a knee into his back and yanked on the coils until I felt his neck crack. No time to savor his death: I hoisted his body, dragged it back to where I’d left the tracker, and prepared for the true hunter.I strapped the tracker to the dead man’s wrist, then placed the original snare around his neck. Mimicking what had been done to me, I jerked the branch rope taut. The corpse spiraled up into the air like a marionette; something clinked to the ground below.A keyring. I hesitated—couldn’t stuff it back in my pocket while the body dangled. Finally, I picked it up and tucked it away. Limping, I approached a nearby tree. I looped rope over a sturdy branch, fashioned a snare, and hid its loop in the leaves, awaiting another bit of luck. Pain flared with every step; I hid behind the tree, exhaling heavily, gazing at my swollen ankle. Soon, people would converge here, following the tracker’s signal. Whoever arrived first would be the hunter. To seize them, I needed full use of my body. I tore my shirt, bound it tightly around my aching ankle.Everything was astonishingly clear, yet my mind felt empty—as if I’d been waiting for this moment my whole life, like a scene from a dream. I fingered the pocketknife from Poochknee (pounced-knee?), exhaling softly.“Ahhhhh, no!”A scream pierced me to the core.“No! No, Raymo—ond!”George’s cry. I slipped from my hiding place and watched as he ran, screaming, toward the dangling corpse. He threw aside the tracker reader. Under the corpse, he tumbled and let out a tortured shriek.“To be dead! Already dead! I—I… ughh, right—right in front of me! I should kill you—I must kill you! Ack! Argh! Dead? Dead?!”He clawed at the dangling body, shrieking. I edged closer, unnoticed, and before George realized I was there, I slashed deep into his ankle with the pocketknife. I heard the precise snap of tendon.“Aaaaagh!”His scream shook the forest. Clutching his bleeding ankle, I dragged him toward the tree. His massive frame writhed, tears streaking his face as he bucked like a piglet. In the chaos, he broke free and crawled across the grass. Gunshots popped behind us—closer now. They were coming.I limped after him, plunged my fingers into his wound, and he howled. I howled back as loudly.“You bastard! You think I’d kill you so easily, you mutt?”Dragging him by his bloody ankle, I seized the snare loop from the leaves and slipped it over his neck. George’s eyes flew wide. He clawed at the rope, lost his balance, and toppled. Blood streamed from his nose. I lunged, stopping his escape; the loop caught, halting him mid-crawl.George frantically tried to free himself. I drove a knee into the back of his hand, pinned him, then punched him again and again—crushing his face until his jaw splintered. Standing, I wrapped the rope around my wrist, leaned back, and yanked. I felt the weight shift, a thrill surging from head to toe. With each backward step, George rose from the ground until his feet left the earth. I looped the rope around the trunk to secure him.He writhed, his claw-scarred neck scraping at the snare. His eyes bulged, a strangled scream caught in his throat. I watched him hang, silent, until his hands fell limp and his head slumped forward. Blood dripped in steady droplets.Another sharp shot split the night. I turned my back on George and limped deeper into the dark woods.Except for the local trap-maker and their leader George, the other workers were nothing but a rabble. They no longer had my tracker. I walked toward the source of the shots. Climbing a tree, I watched armed beaters pass far below, unaware of me. One carried a tracker like George’s—but now it was useless.After they went by, I waited, then hurried back the way I’d come. Despite the darkness, I followed their broken branches and crushed leaves—tens of them had left a trail.At last I glimpsed the forest’s edge. Someone stood by a torch. My body froze. I stayed hidden, watching. The torchlight flickered across his face—it was Simon (시몬, Simon).He was crying, trembling with every gunshot. Pressing his palms to his face, he wept; when he wiped away tears, despair and emptiness shone in his eyes.I watched Simon, then skirted the forest and emerged onto the scene of the log cabin where I’d been held for weeks. I paused at the sight of its ominous silhouette in the darkness, then turned away.Inside the camp, a few workers laughed over beer—unaware of tonight’s hunt, thinking the forest chase was for coyotes. I limped among them, slipping into the makeshift parking lot. I spotted the trap-maker’s truck—the one I’d once stolen—and climbed in.I fumbled through the keyring I’d taken, tried each key until one fit a car. The engine roared to life. I slammed the accelerator, barreling through the lot and across camp.As I left for the village road, a man stood by the roadside—waiting, it seemed. Under my headlights was Jerome (제롬, Jerome), pale and watching. Our eyes met through the windshield. He smiled, blew me a kiss as if bidding farewell or promising next time—I couldn’t tell. I didn’t care to. One thing was certain: tonight he would not chase me again. Maybe tomorrow night, or the next. I didn’t answer his kiss; I floored the pedal and sped past him.Once more, I had escaped.I drove through the night to Denver. ~Nоvеl𝕚ght~ The first place I went was the motel where James (제임스, James) had died—dangerous, but I had to see it. I stood long beside its yellow police tape, then turned away.With the money from selling the truck, I stayed in Denver for weeks to get a passport and visa. My sprained ankle healed completely after careful rest.I never hid particularly well. I bought newspapers on the street without a second thought. No mention was ever made of George or the trap-maker. James’s disappearance made only brief headlines; the motel fire was pinned on Sergio Tereso, a recent Eastern European immigrant. He had escaped an FBI transport days earlier and was shot while on the run. Motive and fire’s cause remained unclear.During my stay in Denver, neither Jerome nor Simon came after me. Only in dreams did I see the two boys again—those faces that surrounded me in Kelly’s swamp: Jerome’s gleaming excitement and Simon’s bitter betrayal alternated before me, as vivid as last night.Since those days until now, they still haunt me. I no longer deny it.The PA announced:“Our aircraft has begun its descent for landing…”I gazed out the window. The land of England—where I’d left five years ago—spread out before me. I closed my eyes and pictured Bluebell’s summer once more: the school, chilling even in summer with no oppressive heat; the swamp Kelly, its hidden alligators; the burned dormitory. There, I will reclaim the ghosts and miserable memories I left behind. For I know the boys live on—and our shared disgrace, stretching backward through time, still rules my life even now…There, I will reunite with the boys.

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