Not ahead of her. Not behind.
Around her.
She stops moving. Her breath catches, just for a second, and I see her hands tighten on the metal base, knuckles white against rust.
She knows.
Not the details. But she knows she’s not alone anymore. That the corridor she chose, the one that felt like a gamble, wasn’t neutral at all. It was an invitation. And she accepted it.
Her shoulders draw back. Her spine straightens despite the pain, despite the exhaustion, despite the fact that she’s bleeding and cornered and running out of moves. She doesn’t call out. Doesn’t beg. Doesn’t bargain. She just stands there, ready, waiting for whatever comes next.
I stay where I am, pressed into the gap in the wall, watching. Not moving. Not intervening. Justwatching. Because I want to see what she does when she realizes there’s no way out. When she understands that the Hunt didn’t just find her, itpositionedher. When she figures out that every choice she made tonight, every route she took, every decision that felt like hers?—
Was mine.
The corridor ahead goes dark. Not gradually. All at once. The last emergency light flickers, dims, dies. Andthe space around her settles into something heavier than silence.
Expectation.
She doesn’t panic. That’s what surprises me. Most runners would bolt. Or freeze. Or start making noise—bargaining, pleading, anything to fill the void. She doesn’t. She adjusts her grip on the metal base, shifts her weight onto her good leg, and waits.
Calm.
Like she’s decided that whatever happens next, she’ll face it head-on.
I could end it now. Drop down. Close the distance. Signal Rogue to move in. It would take thirty seconds, maybe less, and she’d be secured, sorted, out of play. I don’t. Because I need to know.
What kind of woman walks into the Rotter Hunt, willing to lose everything just to win. What she came here for. What she believes that Favor will buy her.
The darkness holds. She holds with it. And somewhere ahead of her, deeper in the corridor, I feel Rogue shift. Not moving yet. Not closing. Just…there. Waiting for my signal. I don’t give it. Not yet.
I want to see what she does when the board stops moving. When the only choice left is whether she runs or stands.
My hand rests against the wall, fingers splayed, feeling the low hum of the Rot vibrating through metal and concrete.
The Hunt’s almost over.
She just doesn’t know it yet.
The silence stretches.
One breath. Two.
Then—
She moves. Not back. Not forward.
Sideways.
She slides along the wall, slow and controlled, testing the space inch by inch. Looking for gaps. For routes I haven’t closed yet. For anything that gives her an angle.
My mouth curves despite myself.
She’s not giving up. Even now. Even here. She’s still trying to find a way through.
I tap once. Final. The signal travels through the Rot like a current, and everything shifts.
Ahead of her, a shadow detaches from the wall. Rogue.
