2
VI
I don’t stop runningbecause I’m tired.
I stop because the noise behind me changes.
Not louder. Not closer. Quieter. The sound tightens, pulls inward, like something being drawn into a fist. The laughter cuts off. Footsteps spread, then narrow again.
I veer into the first opening I see and push against the torn gate of a lingerie store. The metal screeches once, loud enough to make me wince, then stills. Inside, the space smells like cheap perfume and polyester. Lace hangs in shreds from wall pegs. A rack of bras lies overturned, underwires twisted together like mangled fingers.
I crouch behind the checkout counter and wait.
Like that’s not the first place they they’d think to look. But I need to gather my thoughts.
My pulse thuds hard enough to blur my vision. I press my palm against the floor tile and breathe through mynose, counting. One. Two. Three. Panic will do me no good here.
Footsteps pass the storefront. Not fast. Not slow. Measured. One set, then another, then a third. They don’t come inside. They don’t need to.
A woman cries somewhere outside, to the right. Close. Too close.
I inch toward the back of the store and peer out through a cracked display window into the corridor beyond. The lights out there flicker weakly, throwing long shadows across the floor. A girl stumbles into view, barefoot, limping hard on one leg. Blood slicks her heel, smears the tile behind her. Her hair hangs in her face, tangled and dark with sweat.
She glances back once and almost falls.
Three men move after her.
Not running. Walking. They’re spread just far enough apart to block the corridor, boxing her in without touching her. One steps to the side, guiding her path without a word. Another lifts his hand, palm out. She freezes mid-step, breath hitching, like her body understands the signal before her mind does.
The third man reaches her.
He takes her arm, firm and careful, fingers locking just above her elbow. She jerks instinctively, a thin sound tearing out of her throat, but he holds steady. Another man steps in behind her and brings a strap around her wrists. Quick. Practiced.
Her knees buckle.
They catch her before she hits the floor.
No shouting. No threats. No spectacle.
Mostly just resignation. On everyone’s part.
This part of the Rotter Hunt is over not only for this girl but also her captors. What waits ahead for her remains to be seen.
But that’s not my fucking problem.
The man at her arm speaks low, his mouth close to her ear. I can’t hear the words, but her shoulders sag as if something final has been said. The fight drains out of her in a rush, leaving her shaking, barely upright. Tears streaming, of course.
I crane my neck to see them move her down the corridor, steering her with light pressure, hands where they need to be. When they pass beneath a broken directory sign, one of them reaches up and taps it twice, and it flashes like it’s trying to come back on after a power outage.
It’s a signal.
From somewhere deeper in the mall, another tap answers back.
This isn’t random.
I shift my weight and the shopping bags I’m crouching on crackle. I still instantly, breath caught halfway in. Nothing changes. The corridor remains empty, quiet now except for the distant scrape of boots and the girl’s uneven breathing as she’s taken farther away.
I stay where I am.
