The lesser beasts know.
The second the Reef Stalker decloaks, the surrounding Shellcats and Gargolites scatter like roaches when the kitchen light flips on.
They don't retreat out of cowardice—they retreat out of biological programming.
An apex predator doesn't share its kill zone. Everything Rank F, E, and D within a fifty-foot radius vanishes into the chaos of the broader battle, leaving an eerie pocket of empty sand between us and the monster.
A private arena. How generous.
The Stalker doesn't waste time. It pivots toward Boris, who's still on the ground, struggling to push himself upright with one arm. Easy prey. Wounded. Slow.
I step into its path.
The beast's claw comes in fast—a lateral swipe aimed squarely at my throat with the casual precision of something that has killed ten thousand times and stopped counting.
