I shift my stance and cut across the catwalk, angling ahead of her instead of following. This isn’t about catching her yet. It’s about seeing how she reacts when the board changes.
Below, she hesitates as the corridor ahead darkens unexpectedly.
I’ve already closed the path.
Her head lifts. She scans left, then right. She doesn’t see me, but she knows something moved. Her shoulders square. Her weight shifts onto the balls of her feet. Ready.
I exhale slowly through my nose and tap once against the railing this time. Not a signal. A test.
Her head snaps up. She doesn’t run. She smiles. Just a flash of teeth before she moves again, cutting into another shadowed passage, daring whoever’s watching to keep up.
My mouth curves before I stop it. I don’t like this. I follow anyway. Because now I’m certain of one thing.
She’s playing me like I’m playing her.
And she’s going to cost me more attention than I want to give.
6
ARMEN
I don’t chase her.That would be a mistake. Besides, I don’t have to.
She cuts through another retail row, fast and clean, angling toward a corridor that used to lead to anchor stores. Big spaces. Fewer hiding spots. That’s where the amateurs go to get caught. They’re familiar with those places. They shopped there long ago. They think they know the nooks and crannies.
Problem is, everyone else does too.
I let her think her new route is open.
Then I close it.
I shift my route and drop down a service stair that spits me out ahead of her path. The Rot gives up its shortcuts to people who know where to step. Of course, we have the advantage since we live here.
I move through a break in a wall that was neverrepaired, duck under a sagging beam, and tap once against a rusted support pole.
Rogue answers immediately. Not with sound but with absence. A gap opens where he would have been visible seconds ago.
Good job.
I slow my pace, letting the distance shrink just enough to tighten the air. Not enough to panic her. Enough to pressure her choices. From above, Sting shifts position, too loud about it, boots scraping like he wants credit for the move.
I ignore him.
Below, she hesitates. Just a beat.
That’s all it takes.
She changes direction again, correcting mid-stride, and I see it, annoyance flickering through her control. She doesn’t like being steered. She doesn’t like losing options.
That confirms it. She isn’t running blind. She’s running toward something. That much was clear before the Hunt even started.
Before this all started, the girls all sat in the sign-up room behind what used to be a tax-prep office, tucked between a nail salon and a cell phone repair shop. No windows. One-way glass. A table bolted to the floor. Paper contracts stacked neatly, pens chained down like the place pretends at civility.
The Rotters watch from the other side of the one-way mirror.
Always do.
Most of the women don’t look up. They read fast, hands shaking, signatures ugly and rushed. A few cry. Afew try to negotiate. Some stare at their reflections in the glass without understanding what they’re really looking at.
