Sanford's Big Hit

## The Week Of

*Knock knock knock.*

Sanford was interrupted from cooking his latest catch by the sound of someone persistently pounding on his door. It was the kind of knocking that he knew he couldn’t pass off as being from anything other than an impatient, annoying individual who wanted his attention-- and thus, he couldn’t ignore it and continue making his dinner in peace.

With a quiet grumble, he stomped to the door, ripping it open before the person could get another knock in. Sanford quickly eyed the man up and down before the man even realized his knuckles hadn’t made contact with wood. The guy was wearing some outfit that signified a high position-- blazer, puffed pants and boots not made for walking in rough terrain-- but covered in a big cloak, as if to hide himself. The man flinched, drawing back his hand just a bit. His other hand was tightly clutching his cloak, and Sanford noticed burn scars on the back of it.

As Sanford examined the man’s face, hidden by the shadow of the cloak, he noticed some more burn scars. Sanford wondered if that was why he wore the cloak. The man drew his hand back fully to cover his mouth as he cleared his throat. After a bit of thought, Sanford decided the burns weren’t that bad. They were a bit fashionable, even. Could’ve been an attractive look. The thought almost broke Sanford’s concentration, and he went back to frowning at the man.

"You’re... Sanford Quint, right?" The man had a voice that was kind of... annoying. Sanford could easily imagine he’d spent plenty of time hurling insults at people sounding like this.

"It’s Quid, now. Sanford Quid."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," the man scoffed, clearly disinterested. Sanford held back the urge to tell this guy to eat shit. Being forced to drop the name stung him still, but he was intent on not letting it show. He might look pathetic if people thought he wanted the name back but couldn’t get it. "I got a job for you."

The man’s voice had a cadence almost like he was trying to sound sinister. Sanford’s eyes darted back to his stove for a second. He didn’t like being interrupted during cooking, but this was an even worse time for interruptions than usual. He’d been saving up to buy ingredients to make the best dinner he’d have since he left the Quint home. Pink salt from the Oktov mountains, black pepper from the local market of the town closest to his shack, the only mushrooms in the nearby area he could find that didn’t destroy his insides-- all meant to adorn the cut of meat from the tastiest beast in the area, which he himself had hunted. And he’d cook it all in olive oil (bought from the same place as the black pepper) and add a hint of the vintage red wine he’d be drinking with the meal. The wine was the hardest to come across, he’d had to do a lot of favors for the owner of the nearby town’s bar-- some amicable but stern lady who always wore an apron-- just to get this much. He was planning to make this for his birthday coming in a week or so, but he couldn’t wait. The desire for a delicious dinner like this was too strong, and, because of the purchases he made for it, he couldn’t just go to that bar to get the delicious stew the owner makes. "I’m busy today." Sanford was prepared to rant about all the things he’d just thought concerning his dinner if the man offered any protest.

"It doesn’t have to be today!" The man spat out the reply so fast, with such desperation, it almost took Sanford off-guard. "Just-- it has to be done, okay?"

"Okay," Sanford muttered. "Come back tomorrow." Sanford began to close his front door.

"No, let me stay here," the man desperately whined. Sanford was taken aback by the brazen demand. "Until the job is done."

Once again, he was considering telling the man to eat shit. But, worried it might affect his pay, he held back. Sanford growled, "I’m busy right now."

The man’s hand shot back to his cloak and quickly pulled out a surprisingly big bag. Sanford was intrigued enough to hesitate. The man opened the bag, revealing the glimmering contents inside. Sanford audibly gasped. The bag was full of golden tools. His mind immediately exploded in thoughts of what he could get by bartering off stuff like this. Weapons flashed into his head for a second, but more importantly... food. He could have a dinner like the one he was making tonight for his birthday again... and much more. He started salivating at the thought.

"U-uh..." Sanford blurted out, "get in here." When the man didn’t immediately enter, Sanford shouted "Now! I’m making dinner."

The cloaked man was now seated at Sanford’s table, looking nervous, with the monster meat on his plate (though, smaller than the cut Sanford had on his). Under normal circumstances he would’ve stabbed the man if he tried even reaching for a dinner like this, but since he was essentially guaranteed something worth far more, he figured hospitality with the client would score him some points. He could definitely foresee a guy like this being stingier with the golden tools than he’d previously implied, so serving him a meal as good as this had the potential to guilt him into giving Sanford whatever he wanted.

He’d had to spend extra time preparing rice as a side so that they could both have what at least resembled a full meal. Sanford hated rice-- he found it so disgustingly bland he could barely choke it down unless it was accompanied by something full of flavor-- but it was cheap, filling, lasted for a long time, could be made in less than thirty minutes, and he could barter for it anywhere. The owner of the local bar always said he had no sense of taste for hating rice, which made him wonder how such a good cook could be so wrong. He put a little bowl of rice next to the cloaked man’s plate, then set himself a bowl of rice, too (though, less rice than the cloaked man had in his bowl).

"Th-thanks..." the cloaked man sheepishly said.

"Wait until I get a fork," Sanford demanded, seeing the look of hunger in the man’s eyes that indicated he was willing to shove the rice and meat into his mouth with his bare hands. "I also have wine."

"Right," the cloaked man winced like a child.

Sanford pulled out two of the three wine glasses that he owned, brought them to the table, and poured the contents of the wine bottle into them. After sitting down in his chair, he told the cloaked man "go ahead." They both immediately dug into the food.

He’d been salivating so much, the first bite of meat almost felt metallic on his tongue. His jaw tingled when he started chewing. He chugged half the glass of wine he’d poured for himself to shake himself out of it before taking another bite. The fresh, meaty taste accented by salty, earthy accents was wholly heavenly. Sanford had expected to feel guilty, empty and regretful about halfway through this meal-- wasting what was supposed to be a birthday dinner because he was too impatient. But instead he was having the time of his life, secure in the knowledge that the birthday dinner might be even better. He stabbed his fork into the meat, scooped a big helping of rice, then put it all in his mouth. The rice didn’t taste bland to him when well-made meat was masking it. *What a great time*, Sanford thought. And it was all thanks to the cloaked man with burn scars sitting before him, who was feverishly swallowing the meal before him. Sanford noticed the man seemed to be eating the rice and meat at the same pace, which Sanford thought was weird. But it didn’t matter, so long as he was willing to give good pay for his hunting skills.

Sanford took a moment to contemplate while enjoying his dinner. In the beginning, he only got into hunting because it was one of the many random business ventures that his father-- the legendary money-maker Barringer-- dipped his toes in. Nobody expected it to be so big in the Quint family, especially since it hadn’t even become a decent way to make money until the much more recent explosion in the monster population. But both Sanford and Val picked it up as a hobby. At first, hunting was something Sanford had just done for sport for as long as he could remember-- and he never asked why Val was so into it. When Val had to stop hunting for good, Sanford had decided he would hunt even more for her sake. Before then, he was just an amatuer who occasionally enjoyed the thrilling hobby of hunting, but he would grow to become an esteemed expert.

But becoming an expert was a double-edged sword, in a way. He was able to be self-sufficient now that he’d been dropped from the family-- with people practically knocking down his door whining *a monster’s been spotted on this road, it’s so bad we can’t travel there anymore, please kill it immediately!* And since hunting was a hobby he already heartily enjoyed without pay, getting paid for it was the best arrangement he could ask for. However, it was his talent in hunting that led to him getting dropped in the first place. If it wasn’t for that, he wouldn’t have gotten scouted for contract killing, never would’ve been tasked to kill Dijan, and never would’ve been removed from the family by his own father for even thinking of offing someone he was friends with.

Sometimes he imagined a world in which he never got into hunting. He’d never have been removed from the family, he’d still be living comfortably in his luxurious home, and he’d never struggle to fend for himself or just barely be able to eat a great meal for his birthday. It almost sounds like a better timeline for him-- but if it were like that, then he’d have to give up hunting, or at least being good at hunting... and he liked hunting too much for that.

A thought occurred to Sanford-- or rather, a conclusion he’d already considered had become obvious in retrospect. This guy probably wanted him to kill a person, rather than a powerful monster. Sanford’s chewing slowed down. That would explain the obscene payment, him going to Sanford’s house specifically, and the use of a cloak to disguise himself. It would make more sense why he’d wear that cloak compared to hiding the burn scars. That might also explain the burn scars...

Sanford sighed. "Name the target."

The cloaked man looked up from his meal, some grains of rice and meat juice around the sides of his mouth. "What?"

"You said you came here to give me a job. Hurry up and name the target."

The man looked a bit sheepish. Sanford got the sinking feeling he wasn’t going to like what this guy had to say. He regretted his vices that led him to this point, where he could now no longer decline.

"... Zaion Moriam."

For a split-second, Sanford raised an eyebrow in surprise. Then he just smirked. "I’ll do it within a week."

The man looked surprised at how quickly he’d accepted the offer.

*This guy has no idea*, Sanford thought, *just how bad the witches have made my life*.

## The Day Of

Today was the day Sanford would set off to kill Zaion Moriam. He’d rushed things a bit because he wanted the cloaked man out of his house before his birthday-- but he was confident that his current gear was enough to dispatch Zaion, if he got them off guard. He’d had to come up with elaborate lies and worthwhile objects in order to barter his way into getting three bullets without it seeming suspicious-- coming into town with a golden tool and asking for bullets without a good reason would make it way too obvious he was planning to to murder a gridmask rather than hunt a monster.

The cloaked man was surprised by how quickly he got himself together for a job like this, and kept trying to talk about it all.

"Aren’t you gonna ask why?" The man questioned, clearly having a lot to say.

"It’s better if I don’t know." Sanford really didn’t want to hear what he had to say. Not only did he not care, but the man’s voice would be grating to listen to. The man looked dejected whenever he was denied. Besides that, Sanford didn’t need to hear this guy’s personal grudge against Zaion-- he had his own.

The single downside to his hunting occupation was when people got in his way-- most especially, if they managed to get their hands on a target and reap the reward before he could. This was something that went from a rarity to completely commonplace because of the guild of witches. The Emporer personally signed into law their official status as "enforcers," meaning he was greatly restricted in terms of the monster bounties he could apply for. Anything too strong was going to get quickly snatched up by a witch.

So of course he’d want to kill a member of the witch guild. He didn’t even care who it was-- killing any one of them would mean one less person taking his targets. Maybe it would even send a message to the witch guild that they should back off. Killing Zaion especially could cause considerable chaos.

But although part of it was that disdain for the witches in general, Zaion in particular got on his nerves. He’d met Zaion in person once, and their entire existence pissed him off to no end. As he walked off to Zaion’s hometown, he remembered the day it happened, and it only fueled his irritation.

"Um, I’m here!" A stranger’s voice interrupted Sanford, who was just about to get into a physical fight with the town’s well-dressed sheriff. Sanford didn’t turn away. He was already told a member of the witch’s guild would be coming to take the job he came all the way out to a neighboring town for, so he didn’t care who it was-- he was going to make it clear that this was his territory. And his tactic of choice would be intimidation.

The sorry sap sheriff’s shoulders sagged. "Zaion! Thank Kao, this-- this man--"

*Wait, Zaion?*

"No, I understand it all, I heard everything while I was approaching!" Zaion raised a hand, smiling. "Excuse me, sir?"

Sanford turned around to face this "Zaion" person for the first time. He wasn’t quite prepared for the witch to be \*the\* most well-known witch... but that wasn’t going to stop him. Zaion was wearing black puffy pants, white knee-high boots, a plain white shirt, and a big black peacoat-- a weirdly "normal" outfit for a famous witch, if you ignored the large grey pentagram adorning their head. He was a little taller than Zaion, enough so that he could look down at her-- and so he did, anger glaring in his eyes.

"What?" Sanford growled in the most menacing-sounding voice he could manage.

"Oh, you’re a tall person." Zaion smiled nervously. In better circumstances, Sanford would’ve said he’s not that tall. But he didn’t want to lighten the mood. "What is your name?"

"Sanford Quid." He didn’t often like saying the Quid part of his name, but he figured the bad reputation attached might be more intimidating.

"It is nice to meet you, Sanford," Zaion said, extending a hand. "My name is Zaion Moriam, and I am a member of the Witch Guild."

"I know." He considered leaving Zaion hanging for a moment, but then thought of something better. He gripped Zaion’s hand with enough force to showcase his strength, but not enough for it to seem forced. Zaion didn’t look hurt, but her eyes widened a bit. He gave a single shake before letting go, holding back a smirk.

"You are a strong person, too, I see." Zaion gave a giggle tinged with nervousness. "I think I’ve heard of you before, so I guess I can say "I know", too. You’re a hunter, correct?"

"Yeah," Sanford replied dully. "That’s why I’m trying to kill the monster in the forest."

Zaion seemed unshaken, and gave what seemed like a stock response. "Yes, well, I’m sure you’ve already heard this, but the monster in the forest has been classified as a Type B, and that means we-- well, they can’t just let civilians go and--"

"I don’t care," Sanford blurted.

Zaion reacted with a mix between a wince and a confused blink.

"Well... that said..." Sanford didn’t care what Zaion was about to say; he was prepared to refute whatever reasoning she had for denying him access to his target. "It is also a rule that members of the witch guild are allowed to escort civilians through dangerous areas."

Sanford’s face went blank. "What?" was all he could manage to say.

"I’m saying you can come with me, Sanford."

The sheriff was extremely displeased with the implication. He was about to speak up, but a reassuring glance from Zaion and a threatening glare from Sanford shut him up preemptively.

Sanford tried to continue his rugged front. "I work alone." He genuinely didn’t want to hunt with other people around-- it could not only be a nuisance even with other skilled hunters, but for witches, whose methods may be wildly different, they could completely ruin whatever he tried.

Zaion blinked. "... Can you not hunt if someone else is with you?"

"Of course I can!" Sanford responded in an indignant tone almost immediately.

It took him a minute of conversation after this to realize that this is where he’d lost any chance of getting to go alone.

He definitely wasn’t too fond of Zaion at the time, but in hindsight that experience was even more telling than he’d realized. At first she just seemed like a people-pleasing coward caught between being a pushover for him or a pushover for the witch guild. But the more he thought about it, the more it all seemed... planned. Every word that escaped their lips had such depth of purpose, every sentence led so perfectly to the end goal. Sanford saw the truth behind Zaion’s status. Zaion was cunning and crafty, with calculated conduct, concealed carefully by the cover of their cloying, caring, candid character. Scheming was bad as is, but the saccharine smokescreen Zaion selected got under Sanford’s skin.

Not that he particularly wanted to kill Zaion for that alone. But Zaion was the kind of person who he’d have no qualms with killing if he got the opportunity. He wasn’t petty without purpose like that. Also, the walk from where he lived to Zaion’s hometown would take a little over six hours. It was enough travel to be hopelessly inconvenient unless he was getting paid a fortune. Thankfully, he was.

This wasn’t going to be a cakewalk, though-- not at any step of the journey. Routing the journey in the first place was a nightmare. Usually when tasked with hunting a target he’d get everything he needed to know beforehand-- what the monster looked like, what it attacked people with, and most importantly, where it was located-- and with that information he could form a plan. Since members of the witch guild could be anywhere on the continent, any plans he made couldn’t exist until he learned where Zaion actually was-- and it’s not like the witch guild publicly announces where they’re sending their members. Even if he could easily get that information on his own, getting it on his own would paint a target on his back when Zaion later turned up dead. He was lucky the owner of the local bar had a telephone and contacted the witch guild often enough that casually asking if there were any members nearby wouldn’t arouse suspicion... and, of course, that the owner was willing to cooperate. Equally lucky was that Zaion was currently stationed near her hometown-- a place relatively near and somewhat familiar to Sanford, but not one he had much tying him to. At least with this knowledge, planning what to do was possible.

It also helped that he knew where Zaion’s house was-- thanks to none other than Zaion, of course. It had been a while since he was given the information, but Zaion made sure he wouldn’t forget.

"Sanford, now that this is over..." Zaion said, wiping blood off her face with a towel while smiling, "don’t be afraid to stop by and see me sometime in the future!"

Sanford just glared forward in response. He was even more irritated that no one handed him a towel to wipe his blood off.

"My house is right..." Zaion quickly pulled out a map and pointed to a location just outside of town where a trail and a river almost touched. "Here!" Zaion’s red fingerprint marked the spot they lived, apparently.

"Alright." Sanford had no intention of stopping by.

"Really! Don’t be a stranger," Zaion insisted. "I always remember faces, so don’t feel like I wouldn’t remember you."

"No, *really*? You could pick me out of a crowd?" Sanford angrily replied, "Out of all the guys out there with big fuckin’ scars on their faces?"

"Well, yeah, I guess... that makes it a bit easier, haha. X marks the spot..." Zaion started to turn a bit red. Sanford imagined she realized how bad of a joke it was before finishing it. "... where Sanford is..."

"Thanks." He hoped he could convey annoyance in the most chivalrous way possible, to make them feel worse about it.

"Honestly, though, I do have a talent for remembering people." Zaion insisted. "I have heard people say it makes me approachable."

"I’m sure it does."

"... yeah! Anyway, house, remember!" Zaion said, repeatedly tapping that same spot on the map. "And here!" Zaion handed Sanford the half-used blood-soaked towel.

"You didn’t get all the blood off."

"That’s fine!"

Sanford thought Zaion was a really strange person. Not all of the witches were even gridmasks-- some were weird alien species he’d never even heard of-- but somehow, Zaion, who he’d met face-to-face, had such a strong unfamiliar, otherworldly presence. No normal person is so willing to help and trust without condition. Even bonds built by blood aren’t as strong as what Zaion implies. And he didn’t think of that as a compliment, either-- Zaion was completely ingridile. Not to mention the things Zaion was capable of...

He tried not to think about it. It would just psych him out.

Besides, there would be no time for him to think about it regardless, Sanford realized as he heard the faint sound of rushing water and saw a fork in the trail up ahead-- he was almost there. And the sun was starting to set.

## The Night Of

Sanford thought Zaion’s house looked pretty nice-- two floors and clearly enough space for three or four rooms on each. It looked like it was built maybe a hundred (or several hundred) years ago, which would also explain why it was a bit outside the much more modern-looking town Zaion called home. Clearly a relic of times when the lower population of gridmasks and smaller number of monsters roaming around meant everyone could have much bigger plots of land to call their own. Now that everybody crowds closely around areas of significance or resource, and keeping safe from monsters means staying on designated trails, living within fortified walls, and utilizing specialized equipment, nobody wants to live far enough away from anybody else that they have decent living space like this anymore. As a witch, though, it makes sense why Zaion would be the exception.

The house also had easy access to a nearby river, next to which stood a collection of wooden poles, resting on a standalone wooden railing. Considering Zaion was a witch, those were probably staffs to enhance magic, Sanford thought, or perhaps relics enchanted to serve as traps for unwelcome visitors who attempted to enter by river. Either way, he probably didn’t want to get anywhere near them, so he was glad he hadn’t tried to swim.

Sanford was pretty confident Zaion wouldn’t return home until later in the night-- even if there was nothing else the people in town needed their magic for, Zaion still had to do paperwork, something which Zaion described as "the hardest part about being a member of the witch guild." But, just to be sure, before he walked out from the trees, he threw a big rock at the side of the house, and waited a few minutes. When it was crystal clear there’d be no response, he finally thought it safe to walk up to the house.

The front door was made with some dark wood, reinforced with metal on the hinges and knob-- it could’ve possibly been one of those fancy doors with metal in the center, too, Sanford thought. It would be hard to knock down. Thankfully, Sanford had no intention of doing that. He pulled two little tools out of his pocket, shoved them into the doorknob’s lock, and felt around the inside for a few seconds. The door unlocked with a satisfying click.

Sanford smirked-- not for his accomplishment, but at the thought of how easy it was to break the defenses of what most people thought made their homes nearly impenetrable. Whenever Sanford felt like getting a kick out of putting someone on edge, he’d open a lock in front of them as fast as he could, leaving them with worries about what could be done to their own locks. If someone wants to get in, and they have any idea what they’re doing, they’re going to get in. This was also why he never locked his own door, and instead sought to hide his valuables in nearly undetectable locations rather than trust a simple barrier to thwart thieves.

He opened the door slowly and stepped inside. Now he could really begin his job. He quickly walked around the house, examining the rooms. On the bottom floor there was a kitchen and dining room combination, and a door to another room next to the stairs. He checked the door. It opened without a creak, and inside was some sort of study room-- full of books and strange jars, with a single desk and chair in the corner. *This study room might be useful*, Sanford thought. He walked upstairs at an excruciatingly slow pace, slowly and deliberately putting all his weight on one foot, on several areas of each stair. Every third or fifth step or so was a bit louder than the rest. He made a mental note of each step that made a sound, then after reaching the top, he returned to the bottom of the staircase and walked up in a route that avoided each of those steps. He was practically silent going up the stairs. *Good*, Sanford thought. The study room was looking like a great option now.

Sanford checked upstairs. The second floor was just a long hallway with three doors on the side and an open window at the end. He made sure to walk on every board which ones would creak under his weight. He opened the first door, and the hinges squeaked as he did. The first room had a large bed in the center, but aside from a load of antiques it was woefully empty and unfurnished. *Guest bedroom,* Sanford thought, *definitely*. He closed the first door and then opened the next. Inside was a smaller bed, but this room had a lot more stuff inside; lots of knick-knacks, souvenirs, and clothes visible on the ground and in an open closet. He briefly considered checking the closet, before deciding it would be a waste of time. This was clearly Zaion’s bedroom. He closed the bedroom door softly, then walked over to the final one. The floor was pretty quiet under his weight before, but around here it was dead silent. The door in front of him opened without a sound. Inside was a bunch of boxes, chests, and old items. A lot of it was covered in dust. Sanford smirked. *This is fucking perfect*, he thought.

He looked around for a spot between the clutter where he could stay hidden from sight by the doorway. He debated just moving things around to make a good spot, but he was too worried that Zaion would remember exactly how everything was arranged to go through with it. Instead he settled for sitting down near the back behind a large stack of boxes along the wall. He took a comfortable sitting position, and then darted his head around to check if he could see the door from where he was-- it was just out of view. In the small chance that Zaion decided to check the storage room, Sanford wouldn’t be seen. If Zaion entered, Sanford would get the chance to strike before he was noticed.

Though, in Sanford’s mind, detection was already an impossibility. Zaion didn’t seem to understand his methods at all-- that was clear from the first time he talked about it.

"Hunting isn’t just about throwing whatever you have at your target. Stealth is so important." As Sanford spoke, he pointed a finger vaguely towards Zaion’s direction. "Sometimes you have to be hidden very well, stay very quiet, and for very long. It might be the only way you’re able to sneak up on a given target, or the only way a target will get close enough for you to deliver that critical strike."

Zaion responded with a chuckle that sounded cloying to Sanford. "You know, you sound like you’d be good at fishing."

Sanford had an expression like he’d just been smacked. He mumbled "isn’t fishing just... hunting... for fish?"

"Oh, no, not at all!" Zaion insisted, with an expression of genuine shock.

"What do you mean?" Sanford asked. He felt a bit worried as he saw Zaion’s eyes light up.

After hearing Zaion’s fifteen-minute long explanation about the apparently numerous nuanced differences distinguishing hunting and fishing, Sanford made a mental note to never explain the importance of stealth to anybody ever again.

Still, though, he wanted to be thorough. It was simply his nature. Also... if someone’s putting a hit on Zaion, then it only makes sense that Zaion would be more cautious now. Zaion was amateurish, but underestimating his target was a mistake he didn’t want to make.

He touched the scar on his face. It was a permanent reminder of exactly why he should never underestimate his targets. On one of his early hunting trips, he shot a white beast in the head, and, thinking it was dead, approached it. It turns out it had somehow survived the shot, and it then turned around and shot right back, with a big X of energy right into Sanford’s face, kicking him in the ribs before running off. He was lucky to be alive after that. His ribs got better. But the scar would never heal. Barringer had definitely tried-- making use of many methods and magics to mend Sanford’s face-- but nothing worked. Even without the scar, the night he was struck was something he could never forget for as long as he lived. It was one of the only times he'd seen the carefree Feste or the aloof Barringer so worried, but even more striking was Val, who stayed by his side until he was back in good health (and even a bit longer after that) while keeping the most worried tone and expression he'd ever seen. The look in her eyes was unforgettable-- he could clearly remember seeing his fresh scar in the reflection of her pupils. That was the reason he always made sure to shoot his target twice before he got too close.

With that thought, he loaded his gun. He was going to be prepared for when Zaion arrived. His plan was to wait until Zaion was sound asleep, and then simply shoot them to death. That way, not only would Zaion be defenseless, he could be long gone before anyone ever even got worried their favorite witch was gone. He would have to wait a few hours doing absolutely nothing before he got his chance, and then would walk back home in the dead of night. But he’d gotten a lot of sleep last night, so he was ready for it.

Until then, though, he just had to wait.

Sanford started hearing faint noises outside. He stopped breathing for a second to try and hear more clearly. It was definitely approaching the house. The slow yet consistent rhythm of the footsteps clued him in that it was just a single person. Considering how dark it was at this hour, there was no one else it could be except Zaion Moriam.

He heard the distinctive clanking noises of metal touching metal. Someone was unlocking the door with keys. Sanford opened his mouth to breathe and held his hand in front of it. Then he stopped suddenly as a memory about Zaion came to him.

They were approaching the target. Sanford breathed with a fully open mouth.

Zaion made a strange sound. When Sanford looked over, he could tell she was stifling a laugh. "What are you doing?"

"It’s-- this is how you breathe silently!!" Sanford snapped. It was a tactic taught to him by Val.

"Okay." Zaion smiled.

Sanford put a hand over his mouth, blushing.

Zaion started panting very loudly.

"Stop it."

"Okay..."

The hand held in front of his face transformed into a balled fist. Sanford had to resist grinding his teeth. Ever since that day, he’d developed a habit of covering his mouth when he breathed silently. Remembering it pissed him off a lot. He always told himself he wasn’t one to hold petty grudges, but he felt he would relish putting bullet holes in Zaion.

He heard the front door close, some shuffling around near there, and then footsteps. They sounded different. Zaion must’ve taken off their boots. Sanford heard Zaion going up the stairs, with audible creaks coming every few steps. Even though he couldn’t act now, his tension was high. He heard the sound of a door being opened, and then... the sound of Zaion falling into bed.

He forgot to breathe for a few seconds with how shocked he was. Zaion was seriously heading to sleep immediately. This was so... lucky. He was preparing to wait another six hours-- some people love to stay up late into the night, and someone with so many books and so much work like Zaion was a prime candidate for that-- but now he’d probably only have to wait two before Zaion would be in a deep sleep, then he could walk over and finish the job. He was really taken off-guard by all the good fortune he was getting in just this past week. After the worst year of his entire life, things were starting to look up for him all at once. Now, he just had to wait patiently.

...

After about three minutes, Zaion suddenly spoke.

"Ah!"

Sanford raised his head. He heard indistinct shuffling in the other room. He had no idea what was going on.

Then he heard Zaion’s door open... and then heard Zaion walking down the stairs. He rolled his eyes. *Of fucking course*, he thought to himself, *it’s never that easy*.

Then he heard the sound of the front door opening.

Sanford blinked in confusion.

If there was any way to throw a golden wrench in his plan, this was it. *Where the hell are they going at a time like this?* Sanford racked his brain for any inkling of whatever witchly duties could’ve inspired Zaion to get up this late at night to leave, but nothing came to mind. Though there was one thing he was sure of: if his shit luck was anything to go by, Zaion probably wouldn’t be returning home.

Whenever the target flees, there’s only one thing a hunter can do. Chase the target down to finish the job.

Sanford exited the storage room and jumped out the second floor window.

## The Hour Of

Sanford’s heart was racing. He’d just gone from feeling his victory was assured to the ambiguous danger zone of very tangible failure. At any moment Zaion could either escape, or turn around, see he was there, and attack. His only saving grace was that Zaion was incredibly unwary when it came to stealth. And he was very quick, very stealthy, and very determined not to fuck this up.

Sanford moved along with a low stance, a wide gait, and as quick a pace he could muster, gripping his gun tightly. In the event that Zaion looked back, he wanted to not be seen, so he walked as he did so that he could jump into the treeline at a moment’s notice. But, just in case, he was ready to open fire.

Zaion was simply gliding along at a normal, unbothered pace-- though a bit sluggish. They clearly had no idea Sanford was even there. But even still, Sanford was sweating and filled with dread.

Zaion turned the corner at the fork in the path, heading left-- towards the town. Sanford thought for a second, and wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or upset. On one hand, if Zaion had walked away from the town, this chase could’ve gone on for an unforeseeably long time without any resolution other than one of them attacking the other. But Zaion walking towards the town could mean anything. Zaion was unlikely to just be taking a late-night jog around town, so this probably meant Zaion was going to the witch guild, or doing some other important work that would put both of them near witnesses. Sanford would have to weigh his options with killing Zaion right now or seeing if he could even get the chance later on.

But first he’d have to turn the corner. He slowed down a bit before he did, peering forward with his gun drawn just in case an ambush or crowd of witnesses might’ve been awaiting him. Nothing, just Zaion’s back turned away from him. He continued onward.

As he was mulling over shooting Zaion right then and there, he started to realize he was breathing heavily. He steadied himself and wondered why Zaion hadn’t heard him. Zaion was naive, but not completely unaware.

Another memory came to him.

"You know, Sanford..." Zaion started talking. "I have come to notice that your footsteps are very quiet."

Sanford looked over at Zaion. After a second of them walking together, he noticed it, too-- his footsteps were much quieter than Zaion’s. "Yeah? What about it?"

"Is there something special about the shoes you wear that makes your footsteps quieter?" Zaion asked.

"No?"

"Then are you doing it yourself?" They asked, eyes wide.

"I’m just walking like normal."

"I mean, is it some magical ability that you’re using?"

"I’m..." Sanford was a bit caught off guard by the strange line of questioning. "I’m not... trained in magic, no. I wouldn’t even know how."

"That doesn’t necessarily mean it’s not magic!" Zaion said, with a tone of slight enthusiasm.

Sanford was getting annoyed. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Well, okay--" Zaion’s eyes lit up, clearly excited to be able to explain something like this. "There’s this one theory of magical application that’s really interesting-- we call it ‘Arcane Proficiency’-- and it’s the idea that people might use magic to improve their skills at something they’re already good at, or that they’ve trained in for a while. And it’s all done subconsciously, without manual input required for activation."

Sanford blinked and furrowed his brow. This hadn’t answered his question at all. Zaion seemed to detect his confusion.

"For example, let’s say," Zaion said, making constant hand movements in tune with the words, "If someone was a really good cook, they might display Arcane Proficiency by making impossibly delicious food, or food with healing properties."

Sanford immediately thought about the stew made by the owner of a bar near where he lived. "That makes sense."

Zaion smiled, continuing to speak with exaggerated gestures. "Yeah, so, like you said before, being a hunter is all about being stealthy, right?"

Sanford nodded. It was the fundamental pillar of the craft.

"So, a skill like..." Zaion rolled her hand. "... noise suppression, of some sort... would be useful, or it’d come naturally to a hunter. Don’t you agree?"

Sanford thought this whole conversation was really pointless. "Sure."

It did feel pointless at the time. But Sanford was now thinking that maybe Zaion was right. The reason his footsteps and breathing were quiet without him putting any effort into it was because of that magic, or something. Even if that wasn’t the case... Zaion certainly believed it.

Sanford blinked and focused on the situation more. Zaion was almost back into town. In the time he’d spent remembering, his opportunity has passed.

He cursed himself. *Why the hell did I let that happen?*

Ever since he’d embarked on his mission, he’d been reminiscing far more than usual. He’d sweated far more than usual, too. And he’d made a lot more impulsive decisions much more recently.

He was nervous... he’d felt the same thing when he was tasked with killing Dijan. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, killing a person was nothing like killing a monster. Psyching himself up to do it was much harder. Killing a monster came naturally, even, almost without thought.

But Zaion...

*Zaion wasn’t like other gridmasks*, he told himself.

All of a sudden, his nerves faded. He was a little surprised. That was really all it took for him to get over himself. It was the entire reason he accepted the mission in the first place.

Sanford slowed down. Zaion was now stopped in front of the door to some building just on the edge of the town. Zaion was inside the town, but not too far in-- Sanford could stand behind a tree a few meters away while still keeping a good eye on his target. But, he had no idea what the building was. He wondered if Zaion would go inside, or if someone would come out to meet Zaion.

Zaion knocked on the door. They both waited, and after a few moments, some older person wearing professional-looking (but dirty) clothes stepped outside. Sanford had no idea who this was. The two exchanged pleasantries.

"I actually came by because, well, you do sell food," Zaion started talking about something that actually piqued Sanford’s interest, "and I didn’t get anything to eat tonight. So, would it be too much to ask for you to just heat up something in the back for me? I promise I will pay you back!"

The person responded, but Sanford didn’t hear it. A lot of thoughts and emotions were pounding about in his head at this moment.

Zaion had just stepped out for a late night snack. Zaion probably would’ve returned back home in half an hour and then went right to sleep. Sanford realized he didn’t have to come out and give chase like he did. He also realized that getting back into Zaion’s house might prove difficult unless he moved immediately.

And it was all because he let his nerves get the better of him. His uncertainty and self doubt had just cost him needless energy. He was hungry too, and now he probably had to sit in the other room as Zaion chowed down. He didn’t even know who to be angry at, but he definitely felt angry.

"... fucking... dammit..." he muttered without thinking.

Zaion flinched suddenly, and Sanford’s heart stopped. Whether it was because they recognized his voice or just that anyone would check if they suddenly heard a guy cussing out of nowhere, Zaion slowly turned around to investigate the source of the voice.

Sanford’s instincts kicked in as he aimed the gun at Zaion’s head. He felt his life would be over the second Zaion made eye contact. So he wouldn’t give them the chance.

The shot was quiet, but still audible.

*Bang.*

Right into Zaion’s forehead. Zaion’s eyes closed, face contorting in pain. Then Zaion staggered slightly. Then her knees buckled. Zaion crumpled back-first onto the ground.

The rising tension that Sanford had built up so quickly almost entirely dissipated. Sanford was just left breathing heavily, not even covering his mouth anymore.

He knew it wasn’t over yet, though. He knew he had to shoot twice. His scar and ribs ached as he walked closer to Zaion’s body. Head wounds usually draw out a lot more blood, but it had only been a few short seconds, so the droplets hadn’t even left Zaion’s face yet. He pointed his gun towards the center of Zaion’s chest. If the first shot didn’t do it, then Zaion would bleed out soon from a shot like this.

*Bang.*

And then, it was done.

Zaion’s face tightened again. This was a gridmask in the throes of death, and unable to move, speak, or do anything other than--

Zaion’s eyes opened, and their head lifted up.

An intense bout of shivers erupted from Sanford’s hands, quickly moving to the rest of his body. He dropped his gun. His legs trembled so much it was hard to stand. ‘’Was there an earthquake all of a sudden?’’ He’d never shaken this much. ‘’Was this just what Zaion could do, cause earthquakes?’’ He’d never been in an earthquake before. Even Zaion was shaking, trying to lift themself up by their arms.

Zaion’s expression looked tired, eyelids drooping, face covered in blood. His hands shot to his mouth. He felt something rising-- he wasn’t sure if it was a scream or vomit, but he didn’t want it to come out.

Zaion looked right at Sanford. Sanford’s shaking stopped. He felt frozen in time. The look in Zaion's eyes was something almost undescribable, definitely unforgettable. He could see the outline of his scar, his green goggles, and his terrified expression all reflecting off Zaion's pupils. Zaion opened their mouth, as if about to speak. Sanford slowly closed his eyes, bracing himself.

"Who are you?" was all she said.