Rhett follows, his cut less elegant but no less committed.
Colt rolls up his sleeve, exposes the tattooed roadmap of old fights and fresh wounds, and draws the blade across his lifeline. Blood spatters the tabletop.
I take the knife last. The pain is sharp, but it’s welcomed. The four of us press our hands together, blood mixing on the pine, the pact sealed.
“For the Hunt,” Bam says.
“For the girls,” Colt adds.
“For each other,” Rhett finishes.
I say nothing. I just watch the blood drip down, pooling into the cracks and scars of the old wood.
The moment passes. Bam wraps his hand in a rag, then grabs a bottle of whiskey, pouring out a shot for each of us.
“To the end,” he says.
We drink.
And for a second, I feel alive.
The ritual complete, I wipe the blood on my slacks, ignoring the sting. The room’s mood has shifted, violence distilled into purpose.
But there’s one more to include in this news.
I pull out my phone and dial Caius.
He answers on the second ring. “Julian. You have something?”
“We got a call from Don Bonaccorso. The Board is devolving. They want us dead.”
There’s a pause, then the sound of typing. “We already suspected. Slade’s been pulling traffic off their back end. Want to see?”
“Send it.”
Within seconds, the computer monitor pings. Colt angles it for all to see. Onscreen: a series of memos from the Board, timestamped and heavily redacted. But the meaning is clear.
Phase 1: Execute all noncompliant Males (see: Feral).
Phase 2: Extract female Runners and contain.
Phase 3: Purge records, reset legacy cycle.
Below, a roster: our names, along with their Hunt Runner pairings. The girls’ names are highlighted. The notes read: “To be processed post-termination event in the event pregnancy has not been achieved.”
Bam’s laugh is cold. “They’re not even hiding it.”
Caius’s voice comes back over the line. “The only way to win is to play their game better.”
I glance at the boys, then at the screen.
“Let’s do this,” I say.
The call ends. We’re alone again, but this time, together.
Bam picks up the darts, lines up a throw, and puts it straight through the Headmaster’s painted eye.
“That’s what I’ll do to them,” he says.
