FSE

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"Do utilitarians dream of being the lone soul tied to the other track of the trolley?"

As a gazelle, being a herbivore has always given me a significant edge in my line of work. I am the industry's top expert in bombs and demolitions. When hiring military professionals, people tend to stereotype, imagining powerful carnivores for the job, overlooking the fact that bomb-making and demolition design are intellectual endeavors. Only clients who truly understand the trade seek me out.

That said, my greatest advantage is my heightened sense of danger. In this business, carnivores often forget one crucial fact: only those who survive are winners. My sixth sense for avoiding danger has always allowed me to detect trouble early—or at least escape in time.

So, that day, when I realized the bomb's detonation point was off, I immediately started planning my quickest route out of Central Country. Yet my curiosity compelled me to investigate what had gone wrong, hoping to improve my designs in the future. I borrowed a pair of binoculars from another mercenary.

The bomb, which was supposed to detonate indoors, seemed to have been thrown outside somehow, blasting a massive hole in the building's wall. My original design was meant to detonate at close range; even the concrete layer alone should have ensured the target's survival.

As the smoke and dust cleared, I witnessed the birth of the terror later known as the Shasow Beastar.

From nearly two kilometers away at the command post, I watched through my binoculars. And the glowing eyes of that gray wolf stared right back at me. That was the gaze of a predator—a gaze that recognized its prey from an impossible distance. Every ancestor of mine encoded in my gazelle DNA screamed at me to run for my life.

The gray wolf reached out to the steel-reinforced, half-destroyed wall. I don't know what he did, but with just a touch to the concrete structure, the building began to crack and collapse. The damage spread rapidly, bringing the entire building down. I knew then that if I didn't run, it would be too late.

I abandoned my employer and the other mercenaries, forgoing my payment and running for dear life without a second thought about the disastrous impact this might have on my career. Later, it turned out there was no need to worry—no one else survived to recount my humiliating retreat.

Ever since that day, every time a gray wolf was near, my prey instincts to flee would kick in, and I would see those glowing, terrifying eyes lurking in every shadow.

But just now, when this gray wolf sat down next to me, I didn't feel that urge to flee—not immediately, anyway. I didn't even notice him until he ordered a whiskey.

Running away now would seem strange, and for some reason, my instincts were unusually quiet. It had been five years since I'd last been this close to a gray wolf, and I felt an awkward unfamiliarity. I was about to make a sarcastic remark about how impolite it was for a carnivore to sit next to a herbivore without asking first. But when I looked at him, the familiar sensation awakened my memories: those glowing eyes staring straight at me.

I knew then why my instincts had gone silent. Other animals often mistakenly believe that weaker herbivores simply give up in the face of extreme fear. That's not true. Overwhelming stress can cause the body to enter a state of acute distress, where muscle tissue dissolves, leading to death, like being cooked from the inside out.

When this gray wolf sat beside me, I had already died. Confirming this fact strangely brought me some comfort.

Ever since the Central City incident, I had known that one day this terrifying entity would catch up to me. I had never truly escaped his gaze. But now, as the nightmare became reality, I felt an odd sense of relief—as if the guillotine that had been hanging over my neck for so long had finally fallen. A swift death was better than slow torment.

But the gray wolf sitting beside me wasn't the Shasow Beastar. Both of his ears were intact, and there were no scars around his eyes. Was I just overreacting due to their similar aura? How fitting, though, for a cowardly herbivore to meet such an end.

“I've seen your work in Chechnya, Tehran, and New York. I must say, they're as intricate as art pieces. Who would've guessed that such exquisite tools of destruction were crafted by a fragile prey animal?" He swirled his whiskey, took a sip, and spoke. The moment the gray wolf opened his mouth, I knew my instincts had been right all along. I wasn't mistaken. I really was going to die here.

For years, I had struggled to survive and thrive in a world dominated by carnivores, proving that herbivores could wield power too. How naïve of me. True strength among carnivores was nothing like I had imagined.

I wanted to retort, to at least leave behind some sharp words as my final act of defiance. But all those thoughts vanished when I saw the enormous fangs revealed as he slowly enunciated his words. His heavy accent confirmed it—he was from Central Country. The dark shadow of the past had finally caught me.

“You know what I want to ask. Who commissioned those special bombs you designed? How many did you make? And where are they now?" He drained his whiskey, then bit down on the ice cubes, crunching them with his massive jaws. “If you don't waste my time, I promise to make your death quick. That's the greatest mercy I can offer." Though his tone seemed calm at first, I could detect the subtle menace beneath his words. The bartender and other patrons had already fled—no heightened instincts were needed to sense the imminent danger.

“You know the rules... All my deals are conducted through black boxes. I have no idea who the clients are or where the products go. But I can tell you this: I made three bombs for them. One was used during the Central City incident, and there hasn't been any sign of the other two being deployed since. That's all I know." I swallowed hard, trying to keep my throat from drying out. “Please, make it quick." His massive hand looked more than capable of snapping my neck in an instant.

“I believe you, but you know the rules too."

Oh no.

“Plea—" I managed to get out one syllable before he slammed me onto the bar. Unbearable pain and a horrifying cracking sound came from my head.

“Was it this hand that crafted those delicate bombs?" He licked the blood dripping from the base of my broken horn.

“Plea—" Again, I couldn't finish my plea before he used my horn to stab my hand, pinning it to the bar. The unimaginable pain overloaded my nerves, leaving me incapable of doing anything but screaming. Then, he broke my remaining horn, tears and saliva uncontrollably streaming down my face.

“Where are the other two bombs now?" He used my horn to cut into the skin below my eye, slowly inching toward my eyeball.

“I don't know! I really don't know!" I would have said anything to make it stop, but the unbearable pain left my mind blank.

“I believe you." He sighed, releasing me as he stood up and adjusted his clothes. “But I have bad news for you. I lied about making it quick." The last image my eyes registered was his enormous fangs.

***

“Botchan." Two gray wolves bowed to me in perfect unison.

“It's done. I made sure to leave him alive so you can enjoy yourselves." As soon as I spoke, Dusk's excitement made him drool uncontrollably, while Dawn looked visibly uneasy. How could twins have such different personalities? “Don't get carried away. Start with non-lethal parts, and bury what's left six feet deep so no other animals catch the scent." I waved them off, and Dusk immediately dashed into the bar, drooling all the way.

“Botchan, if your father finds out..."

Oh, here we go again. Dawn's stammering began, and I couldn't help but sigh at his persistence.

“That's why he won't find out." I grabbed Dawn by the collar, slamming him against the trunk of the car. Sometimes, a more direct approach was necessary to get my point across.

“Will you tell him?" I pressed the tip of a gazelle horn against the throbbing artery in his neck, applying pressure.

“Of... of course not." He answered without even daring to tremble, but I kept pressing until a small bead of blood surfaced.

“NO. YOU. WILL. NOT." I released Dawn, who immediately tucked his tail between his legs and ran into the bar to join his brother.

I doubted Dawn was the type to eat live prey, but whatever. Oh, right—the gazelle horns. I already had a set of Thomson's gazelle horns, but these seemed to be in better condition. I opened the trunk and licked the blood off the horns before placing them in my bag.

Hmm? I had a missed call.

“Dad, it's me. What's up? No, it's all taken care of. I'll be back next month. Ha, as soon as we opened the briefcase, the cash made him spill everything. You know how mercenaries are. I think he'll spend the rest of his days in Australia or New Zealand—after all, we weren't the only ones after him.

“No, we only know that at least two bombs are still out there. Oh, by the way, Dusk and Dawn have been immensely helpful; they're excellent trackers. Please allow them to continue assisting me. Yes, I understand."

There was a brief silence on the other end.

“I know. Eighteen years. You don't have to call me every year around this time—I know. I miss her too. If I have time after I return, we can talk, but you know how things are now. Take care."

I hung up the phone and wiped the blood off my lips.

I shouldn't have bitten that gazelle—no flavor at all, like chewing on sand. Disgusting. I spat out the blood lingering in my mouth, got into the car, and waited for Dusk and Dawn.