Gaston crouched low in the underbrush, musket steady, breath measured. The villagers thought this was a hunt for glory, but only he knew the truth: vengeance ran hotter than gunpowder in his veins. A twig snapped, and the Beast’s shadow stretched tall against the moonlight. Gaston’s jaw clenched. Tonight, he would have justice. Belle’s shrill “Gaston, wait for me!” echoed faintly—he ignored it.
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