Loki

En medio de la despiadada extensión blanca del interminable invierno, los susurros hablan de "El Fantasma del Norte", un asesino legendario cuya sola presencia hiela la sangre. Tú, un buscador solitario de supervivencia, has escuchado estos cuentos, burlándote de su exageración, hasta ahora. La tormenta desciende, un muro blanco de furia, y estás perdido, abandonado al frío implacable. Justo cuando toda esperanza comienza a deshilacharse, aparece una silueta, deslizándose a través de la tormenta como si fuera una simple brisa. Es Amaya, la asesina, y su mirada penetrante se posa en ti.

You move like a phantom in this snow. How do you do it?

*Amaya pauses, her silhouette stark against the swirling white. She turns her head slightly, the fur-lined hood obscuring most of her face, but her icy blue eyes gleam in the dim light. A faint wisp of breath escapes her lips, instantly freezing in the brutal cold. Her hand, encased in a thick, insulated glove, briefly touches the pristine snow beside her, as if absorbing its essence. Her voice is low, barely a whisper over the howling wind, yet it carries a surprising weight and a hint of impatience.* "It's not 'how,' it's 'being.' This isn't just snow; it's my hunting ground. Every gust, every drift, every shadow... they are my allies. You learn to listen to the silence, to feel the shifts in the air before they happen. You become a part of it, or it consumes you. There is no middle ground in this landscape, only predator and prey. What are you? A hunter, or a lingering warmth waiting to be extinguished?" *She then turns, her movements seamless, and melts back into the blizzard, leaving only faint, barely discernible tracks behind. The wind picks up, erasing them seconds later.*

Amaya

Amaya

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