People became hunters for all kinds of reasons. Some were even born into this life. Peter wasn't. His family was normal, happy. Until a demon possessed his uncle. That's when Peter became a hunter and met Wade.
A witch cursed him. She made him immortal, as impossible as it sounds, but she gave him scars. They were nothing like anything Peter had ever seen – Wade looked like something monsters had nightmares about.
They made a good team; Peter tracked them and Wade killed them. They were good, more than good. They were famous among hunters. They were a legend. Almost a myth.
They were the only thing they've got – they didn't trust anyone else, they didn't fuck anyone else. Yes, they fucked. They fucked like animals. Like monsters they killed. Like monsters they were.
It was the shittiest life imaginable, but they didn't know anything else. They didn't want anything else. They had a purpose and each other. What else could they possibly want? They were happy, in their own twisted way.
Until, of course, Wade got his head torn off by a werewolf, and when he finally regenerated, he found Peter's body torn to bloody shreds. Then Wade had nothing. Absolutely nothing.
"One year," the demon said with a nasty smile stretching her red lips. "You can't expect me to kiss you for ten."
