Straight lines turn this place into a trap. Corridors narrow, exits disappear. The mall rewards momentum right up until it punishes it, that much I’ve learned from the girls who’ve been caught, thanks to their screams.
I change how I move.
I start thinking in layers instead of distance. Up and down instead of ahead. Corners instead of speed. The Rot isn’t one big open space—it’s stacked. Folded. Full of dead ends that only matter if you hit them wrong.
Once I quit trying to outrun it, the mall starts to make sense.
The corridor I thought would dump me into the food court bends instead, narrowing into a row of darkenedstorefronts with their gates half lowered, like creepy mouths that never finished closing. I slow without stopping, feet light, eyes up. Running blind gets you boxed in.
I duck into another bookstore through a shattered side window, glass crunching under my boots. Inside, the place smells like paper and old glue. Shelves lean at bad angles, heavy with books no one ever came back for. Unwanted paperbacks spill across the floor, covers warped and peeling. Smeared with footprints.
I’m not the first one here. Nor am I the last.
Paper carries sound. So I move along the edges instead, sliding between fallen shelves, using the rows to hide. Someone has knocked over a display table and left it wedged against the back wall. I crawl under it, come up on the other side, and freeze.
Footsteps pass outside. One set. Then another. Not rushing. Not searching. Sweeping.
I count the beats between steps. I picture the space beyond the gate, who’s wide, who’s tight, who’s trying to force the maze into something straight and simple.
That’s their mistake.
I grab a hardback from the floor and toss it as hard as I can down a far aisle. It skids and slaps against a shelf, loud in the quiet. The footsteps shift instantly, drawn to the sound.
I’m already moving. I slip out the back of the store, through the stockroom. The narrow corridor dumps me into a shoe store, and I almost laugh. More shoes. Always goddamn shoes. Boxes are stacked to the ceiling here, some collapsed, others still taped shut like they’re waiting for shoppers that’ll never come.
I kick one stack as I pass.
Boxes tumble, sneakers spilling out in a wave of rubber and laces. The noise echoes, messy and uncontrolled. I vault over a fallen bench and cut right instead of left, ducking low and sliding behind a display still bolted to the floor.
Someone swears behind me.
Good.
I pull a shoe from the pile, a heavy boot, steel-toed, and hurl it across the store. It hits a mirror and shatters, glass raining down in a sharp, singing crash.
The men follow the noise.
I don’t. I climb. A ladder leads up to a storage loft built above the sales floor. I take it two rungs at a time, muscles burning, teeth clenched. From the top, I press flat, peering between the slats into the space below.
Two figures enter, faces hidden behind some weird-ass doll masks that contrast with their creeping, predatory moves. One scans high, smarter than the others. I don’t wait to see if he looks up.
I drop down the other side and land in a crouch, absorbing the impact. Pain flares up my calves. I welcome it. I push through the emergency exit and burst into the food court. The damn food court.
The space opens wide, too wide and too exposed. Tables are overturned and stacked into crooked walls. Chairs lie broken, legs snapped off like bones. The counters are stripped bare, metal surfaces dull and streaked. Bad place to linger.
I slow anyway.
Sound carries here. Too much open space, too manyangles. I move from cover to cover, staying low, keeping the tables between me and the corridors that feed into the court.
I hear someone laugh.
Not close. Not far. Different. That’s when it clicks. This isn’t just about cutting me off anymore. The Hunt has changed pace.
Routes that were open minutes ago aren’t. Corridors that should be clear feel watched. I don’t see anyone, but the pressure stays constant, like hands on my shoulders guiding me without touching.
Someone is steering. Not chasing.
I edge toward a tipped soda machine and slip behind it, breathing through my nose, counting again. One. Two. Three. I listen.
