Toward me.
I see traces of the other girls.
A dropped shoe near a gate.
A torn sleeve snagged on metal.
A smear of blood drying dark on tile.
I don’t linger on it. They want me to see just enough to understand where I stand in the hierarchy of things.
Captured.
Accounted for.
Done.
We reach an open space near one wing of the mall, where the ceiling rises high and broken skylights leak dull gray light. A shopping cart lies on its side and in the distance, I spot an old phone booth with the receiver yanked out. A small fountain sits dry and cracked at the center, coins fused to its basin with rust. Holiday decorations cling to the railings above—plastic garlands, faded bows, a single strand of tinsel dangling loose.
This used to be where Santa sat.
I remember standing in line here as a kid, my father’s hand warm and steady on my shoulder, the smell of pretzels and cinnamon buns heavy in the air. I remember thinking the man in red looked tired. Like he’d heard too many wishes he couldn’t grant.
I wonder whose wish gets granted this time.
They stop me at the edge of the fountain. Hands adjust my stance, turning me outward, making sure I’m visiblefrom every corridor that feeds into the space. From above. From the shadows. I feel eyes on me—not hungry, not rushed. Evaluating.
This is what the end looks like.
No triumph. No explanation. Just the certainty settling into my bones that whatever I was before the Hunt doesn’t exist anymore. Runner. Player. Woman with a plan.
All gone, like a fucking loser.
My knee throbs in time with my pulse. Exhaustion finally catches up now that there’s nowhere left to go. My throat burns from breathing too hard for too long.
I don’t cry. I won’t give them that.
But grief still arrives, heavy and unavoidable. Not sharp. Not dramatic. Just the slow collapse of something I’ve carried too long.
The Favor.
The answers.
My father’s name cleared.
All of it moves on without me.
Someone else will win. Someone else will be owed. Someone else will get to stand in front of the Rotters and demand truth.
I won’t even hear about it.
A presence steps closer behind me. Not touching. Just close enough that I feel heat, smell sweat and metal and the Rot itself.
My bindings hold.
Somewhere deeper in the mall, a sound echoes, movement, distant and alive. The Hunt is still happening.
Just not for me.
