PARIS POVI walked down the streets of the pack, searching for Vincent. There were blood trails everywhere. On the sand, the walls, the cars. Empty bullet barrels, gun powder mixing with the atmosphere. The air wasn't entirely clean, a bit cloudy and smoky. I made my way through the trees, heading towards the ocean where I once found him. “Vincent,” I called.The echo of my voice responded twice. I called again, yet nothing. The forest welcomed me with so much silence. I followed the blood trails that hadn’t yet soaked into the earth. They led in a single ruthless line toward the cliff, the same place we stood a few weeks ago. The trail ended at the edge. I stopped walking.Vincent sat on the rocky tip, knees drawn up, forearms resting on them. His white shirt was shredded across the back and chest, hanging in bloody parts. His dark hair was drenched, sticking to the side of his face.He didn’t turn when I approached, but his shoulders stiffened like he was bracing for a blow.I s
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