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The stench hit him first: decomposing flesh mingled with the earthy scent of snow, creating a nauseating cocktail that would have made most humans recoil.

But he wasn't like most humans. He breathed it in deeply, letting it guide him.

The mountain lion's kill was fresh. He'd been tracking the cat since dawn, waiting for the perfect moment. Steam rose from the elk carcass, stark against the crisp morning air. His camera was ready, perfectly positioned. Now, all he needed was for the cat to return.

He'd been up all night, not catching so much as a wink of sleep, but that was the cost of perfection. You had to give every ounce of your energy, every ounce of yourself , and often even that wasn't enough. Sometimes nothing was enough.

The sun climbed higher, but he remained motionless, waiting. His fingers had gone numb inside his gloves, and his toes burned with the beginning stages of frostbite. He welcomed the pain. Pain meant you were earning the shot, proving yourself worthy of capturing truth.

Pain meant you were paying the price.

A raven landed nearby, eyeing the carcass. He ignored it. Ravens weren't what he was after. He needed the mountain lion, needed to capture that perfect moment when predator claimed its kill. Nature's truth, raw and unfiltered.

The cold deepened as clouds moved in, but he barely noticed. His father had taught him well—how to transcend physical discomfort, how to become one with the lens. "The camera isn't a tool," his father would say. "It's a gateway to truth. And truth requires sacrifice."

What would his father think of him now? Would he be proud, knowing what his son had accomplished, or would he find some fault in his work, some tiny mistake? It wasn't much of a question.

After all, when hadn't his father found a mistake?

Movement caught his eye—but it wasn't the mountain lion. A figure in bright ski gear carved down a nearby slope, phone extended on a selfie stick. The skier executed a series of practiced jumps, each one carefully designed to look spontaneous.

Mark Davidson. The "influencer" had been all over the resort lately, filming his trick shots, manufacturing moments for his followers. Everything about him was performance, artifice.

The man clenched his jaw tight as he adjusted his focus, forgetting all about the mountain lion now. He watched as Davidson repeated the same jump three times, checking his phone after each attempt. Each take more artificial than the last.

Stupid punk. Thinks the whole world is there for his amusement, doesn't he?

Something stirred in the man as he watched—a familiar pressure building behind his eyes. Davidson would make one final jump, he knew. One perfect, authentic jump. And he would be there to capture it.

He began packing his gear with practiced efficiency. Each lens cleaned, each cap secured. Everything is in its proper place. Order was essential. His father had taught him that too.

The cold had settled into his bones, but he welcomed it. The bite of winter, the sting of wind—these were real sensations. Not like the fake excitement Davidson was manufacturing on the slopes above.

He checked his watch. Time was a canvas, and he was its master. He had all day to get his next shot, all day to make sure it was perfect.

Moving through the deep snow, he began plotting his approach. Davidson was so focused on his phone, his followers, his performance. He would never notice the silent figure drawing closer, preparing to help him achieve his finest—and final—moment of truth.