Not like this.
I was supposed to win, goddammit. I’ve already lost so much. I just wanted one little break. Is that so much to ask?
I see my father’s face flash sharp and unwanted in my head, eyes steady while men talked over him like he wasn’t even in the room. The memory stings worse than the pain. The shame I felt then hits again, hot and sour.
I should have done more.
I should have pushed harder.
I buck again, fueled by that rage, by everything unfinished. For half a second, one grip slips. I wrench sideways, scraping skin, nearly free?—
—and then a knee wedges in, pinning my thigh. Another arm snakes across my chest, locking me down completely.
A soft click sounds near my head.
“How… how did you find me in the dark?” I whisper as if I’m still hiding.
Then a voice, low and almost amused. “Night vision, Vi.”
My name lands like a blow.
Everything in me goes cold.
They’ve been watching the whole time.
Every hiding place. Every stumble. Every stupid little calculation I made in the dark.
The pride I was riding on collapses all at once, not piece by piece but in one big crash. The Favor. The questions. The future I built on surviving long enough to demand answers.
Gone.
My movements slow, not because I’m giving up but because understanding lands heavy and final. It hurts. Badly. Inside and out.
This is it.
This is what getting caught means.
I’ve heard what happens to Runts. Not details. Never details. Just the way voices drop when the word comes up. The way women stop being counted and start being managed. The way some disappear into the Rot and others come back altered, like something essential was traded away without consent.
Property. Labor. Leverage. The thoughts stack up, ugly and relentless.
I don’t die here. I become something else.
Grief punches through me harder than fear. It spreads fast, thick and suffocating, filling my chest until breathing hurts. Dying would’ve been cleaner than this. Dying would’ve ended it. Dying would have been sweet relief. The easy way out.
But no, I don’t get that privilege. Instead I’m stuck here, alive, with the kind of shit that doesn’t end.
A light snaps on. Not bright, nor kind. Just harsh and close, carving jagged shadows across concrete and bodies. My eyes burn as faces and figures resolve around me.
Masks.Not the cheap plastic shit I’ve seen all night like animal heads, cracked dolls, presidential faces. These are different.
Bone-white. Smooth. Custom-made.
They cover the lower half of their faces—jaw, teeth, cheekbones—leaving eyes exposed above the sculpted bone. The grin is permanent, carved and skeletal, like something that used to be human and isn’t anymore.
Three of them.All identical.
I’m guessingthese aren’t random hunters. These are the ones who run the place.
