Footsteps.
Not running. Walking. Steady and unhurried, boots crunching on the frozen ground. He's not chasing me—he's stalking me. Taking his time because he knows something I don't.
He knows this vineyard.
He knows every row, every dead end, every place I might try to hide.
And I know nothing.
I push off the post and run again, but my movements feel more frantic now, less controlled. The adrenaline that was carrying me is starting to flag, replaced by a desperate, primal desire to live.
The music fades to silence.
The song has ended.
"Time's up, my love."
His voice is closer now. So much closer. I can almost feel it against the back of my neck, warm breath in the cold air.
I don't look back. I can't look back. If I look back and see him—actuallysee him—I don't know what I'll do.
The vineyard stretches endlessly ahead, rows upon rows of gnarled vines and pulsing lights. Black balloons bob in my peripheral vision. The sky has gone fully dark now, deep purple giving way to black, and the red lights seem brighter for it.Angrier.
I'm running out of steam. I can feel it in the heaviness of my legs, the way my stride is shortening, the burning in my chest that's becoming harder to ignore. Whatever he used to drug me is still lingering in my system, weighing me down when I need to be light.
But I keep running.
Because stopping isn't an option.
Because surrendering feels like giving up something I'm not ready to give.
And because, despite everything, despite the fear and the confusion and the cold...
A fucked up part of me wants to see where this night will go.
The thought surfaces unbidden, and I shove it down with all the force I can muster. Now is not the time to analyze why my body is responding to mortal danger like it's foreplay. Now is the time to survive.
I round a corner and nearly collide with a massive cluster of black balloons, their strings tangled together around a tall wooden post. I dodge at the last second, my hip catching the edge of the post hard enough to bruise.
The pain focuses me. Sharpens the edges of my panic into something more useful.
I scan the darkness ahead, looking for anything that might help me. Another row, another turn, another?—
Movement.
To my left, just a glimpse. A shadow shifting between the rows. A shape that's too tall, too broad, too deliberately positioned to be anything but him.
I veer right so hard I nearly fall, my bare feet sliding on a patch of frost-slicked grass. My arms pinwheel, desperate for balance, and I manage to stay upright through sheer force of will.
The footsteps change.
No longer walking. Running.
He's coming.
A sound escapes my throat—a cross between a whimper and a moan. I force my exhausted legs to move faster, pushing through rows of vines that seem to grab at me, to slow me down, to offer me up to the predator at my heels.
The red lights pulse faster now, or maybe that's just my imagination. My heartbeat and the lights have synced up, creating a rhythm that feels almost hypnotic. Almost ritualistic.
