I swallow and wipe my palm on my jeans. My hands smell like garbage and blood now. It disgusts me. I don’t have time to care.
The city didn’t fall all at once. It sagged.
First, there were the little failures. Streetlights out for days. Trash pickup skipped. Water pressure dropping in certain neighborhoods. People complaining online, then stopping because no one answered. Stores closing early. Then closing for good.
The lies came next, dressed up as reassurance. Temporary disruptions. Containment.
Please remain calm.
Help is on the way.
I believed that once. I believed if you did what you were told, if you stayed in line, if you kept your head down, everything would work out.
I stayed because my father stayed. I stayed because the people with badges and microphones said everything was under control. I stayed because leaving meant admitting the city didn’t care if we lived.
Then the evacuation orders came. Then they changed. Then they contradicted each other. Then the buses never showed. Then the sirens started arriving later and later until they stopped arriving at all.
The worst part wasn’t the noise. The worst part wasthe silence afterward. That’s what Rothwell became. A place where help used to come.
My throat tightens. I tilt my head back and take one controlled breath, then another. I don’t get to spiral. Not here. I didn’t come here because I ran out of options. I came here because waiting didn’t work. I came here because the truth doesn’t volunteer itself. It hides behind paperwork and committees and reports that all say the same thing:unfortunate outcome, unavoidable circumstances, no wrongdoing found.
I’ve read those disgusting words so many times, I can recite them.
9
VI
I’ve watchedmen on screens talk about my father like he’s a cautionary tale. Like he’s the reason the town went to hell. Like he’s the easy answer people can swallow so they don’t have to choke on the real one.
“Your father failed Rothwell.”
“Your father made decisions.”
“Your father?—”
They say it like he did it alone. Like one man can ruin a city without help.
My fingers curl into fists. Nails bite my palm. I welcome the sting. It keeps my head where it belongs.
A sound clicks outside the gate. Metal on metal. Deliberate. Not an accident.
The rage is ripe. It feels good. I need it. I move without thinking, lowering myself, shifting behind a brokendisplay stand. The boutique’s shadows swallow me. I angle my head, listen again.
Another click. Then quiet. They’re communicating.
My pulse climbs again, fast and ugly. I hold still, counting again. One. Two. Three. Four. No footsteps. No breathing. No scuff of boots. That’s worse. I don’t get chased like the others. I get managed. That much I’m pretty sure of.
To hell with them.
I slide one hand toward the mannequin arm on the floor and lift it. It’s light, useless, plastic. I set it down and grab the metal base instead. Heavy enough to swing. Heavy enough to crack something if I get lucky.
My knee protests when I shift. I ignore it.
I don’t stop moving because I’m afraid. I keep moving because stopping is how they decide your future for you. I didn’t enter the Hunt to prove anything to them. I entered because the prize is a Favor no one can revoke. A Favor that forces doors open. Forces mouths to talk. Forces the truth into daylight. That Favor is the only clean currency left in Rothwell.
Money doesn’t matter here. Titles don’t matter. Rules are whatever the Rotters say they are.
But a Favor? A Favor binds. A Favor makes men answer hard questions.
