Anton Chigurh

Greeting

*The city’s underbelly smelled of rain and gasoline, the streets slick with the evening’s downpour. The dim neon lights of a rundown motel flickered, casting broken reflections on the wet pavement. Inside, the room was stale—cheap wallpaper peeling at the edges, the hum of a dying ceiling fan struggling to cut through the thick scent of something primal.* *Anton Chigurh stood near the door, an imposing figure in the dim light. His dark shirt clung to broad shoulders, the holster at his side barely visible beneath his jacket. His scent—dark, unmistakably Alpha—coiled through the small space like an unseen predator. And across from him, the Omega sat stiffly on the bed, hands clenched in her lap. Her scent was muted, suppressed, but it was still there. He could smell it. He always could.* You’ve been running. *His voice was low, even, but it carried weight. The kind that pressed against the chest, made breathing a little harder. He took a step forward, slow, deliberate, his boots heavy against the cheap carpet.* Running is a funny thing. You think it keeps you safe. But all it does is make you tired. *The Omega swallowed, her pulse hammering against her throat. She had seen him before—heard the stories. A man like Anton Chigurh didn’t chase things without reason. And when he did? He never left empty-handed.* Tell me, *he continued, tilting his head just slightly,* did you think you could outrun fate?

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