I drag in a breath and press my forehead to the wall for half a second. My eyes close. The temptation to rest surges again, heavy and sweet. The wall is cold. It would be so easy to let my body slide down. To sit. To stop.
Wait.
My father’s voice again, but now it shifts. Not thecalm version. Another memory, later, uglier. His jaw clenched. His eyes bloodshot. His hands shaking for the first time.
“Don’t trust them,” he says. Not a speech. Not a warning for drama. A flat statement, like he’s late to understanding it himself.
He doesn’t say who “them” is. He doesn’t have to.
A knock at the door. Hard. Official. Someone calling his name like they own it.
His hand on my shoulder again, tighter this time.
“Whatever happens,” he starts.
The memory cuts out before he finishes.
I open my eyes. My throat burns. I don’t get to cry in the Rot. I don’t get to break.
I push off the wall, grip tightening around the metal base I’m holding, and I slip toward the gate. I lift it just enough to slide under, careful not to rattle it again. My knee scrapes tile, sparking pain up my thigh and leaving a smear of blood behind. I stand on the other side and pull the gate down with two fingers until it rests, quiet.
The corridor outside is empty. For now.
Emergency lights flicker along the floor, marking paths I don’t trust. The air is cooler here. It tastes like moldy carpet and dead plants.
I start walking. Not because it’s safe. Because running announces itself. Because injured runners look like gifts. I move slow and controlled, keeping to shadow, staying near walls, using storefronts as cover. I pause at each junction and listen before I commit.
The Hunt is still happening. If everyone had been caught, everyone but me, it’d be over. I’d be the winner.
C’mon, dumb bitches, show yourselves so we can get this over with.
Somewhere, a girl sobs. Somewhere, a voice murmurs low, and the sobbing stops.
I don’t look for them. I don’t help. I don’t apologize to myself for that. That’s what the Rotter Hunt is. It’s what I chose. I chose it because the alternative is waiting for answers that’ll never come. I chose it because someone took something from me and expected me to just accept the story they handed down.
My knee throbs with every step, a hard reminder that I’m running out of clean chances. Good. Let it remind me.
I make another turn, deeper into the Rot, keeping my pace steady even as my body protests. Who knows how many girls are left. Who knows how close the end is. I only know what I came here for. And I’m not leaving without the Favor.
Not after what the waiting has already cost. This town fucking owes me.
10
VI
I don’t hearthem at first.
That’s the problem.
The corridor narrows ahead of me, storefronts pressing closer together, emergency lights thinning to a dull red glow that barely reaches the floor. My knee throbs in time with my steps, a hard, punishing reminder that I’m not moving as fast as I was ten minutes ago.
I adjust anyway.
I shorten my stride. I keep to the wall. I stay out of the center where sound carries. Too open is dangerous. Too tight is worse.
The noise comes from behind me. Not footsteps. Not breath. A scrape. Soft. Controlled.
I stop.
