I mark their path and dismiss it. They won’t reach her before me. Too fucking dumb, for starters.
Another group in ski masks—how original—send signals from the east wing. A double tap against metal. They’re closing off exits, not chasing. Efficient, but late.They didn’t see her cut across the open space. They’re reacting, not anticipating.
I look back down.
She’s already gone.
I don’t swear. I don’t hurry. I move.
The Rot isn’t a maze if you know it. I step over a fallen directory sign and cut through what was once a salon, mirrors shattered, chairs bolted to the floor. The scent of chemicals like the ones my grandmother used to smell of when she got her hair done, still hangs in the air, sharp and old. I exit through the back, up an employee-only service stair that doesn’t show on any map.
Below me, she reappears.
She’s faster now. Angry. That edge sharpens her movements but it costs precision. She clips a column and recovers clean. No stumble. No panic.
Good.
I slow my pace and let the distance stretch. This isn’t a chase. It’s positioning.
From this angle, I get a better look at her. Dark hair, almost black in the emergency lighting, pulled into a braid that’s already coming loose from the run. Strands stick to her neck. She’s not tall, average, maybe, but she moves like she takes up more space than she does. Compact. Efficient. The kind of build that doesn’t waste energy on anything that doesn’t matter.
Her face catches the light when she turns her head, checking angles. Sharp features. High cheekbones. Mouth set in a hard line that looks permanent, like smiling costs too much and she stopped paying years ago. I can barely make out a scar cutting through her left eyebrow, old,faded, the kind you only notice if you’re looking. I’m looking.
She’s not beautiful in the way that makes men stupid. No soft edges. No practiced expressions designed to disarm. But there’s something about the set of her face, the way her eyes stay sharp even when her body’s screaming to quit that catches and holds.
I don’t like that it holds.
I don’t like that I’m cataloging details I don’t need. The way her shirt clings to her ribs when she breathes hard. The flex of her thighs when she pivots. The fact that she hasn’t cried once, hasn’t begged, hasn’t done any of the things most runners do when they realize the Hunt isn’t a game.
Attraction is a liability in the Rot. It clouds judgment. Makes you sloppy. Makes you start thinking in terms of keeping instead of catching.
I push the thought down and focus on her movement instead.
Sweat darkens the fabric between her shoulder blades. Her spine stays straight even as she runs. She carries her weight like she expects resistance, not rescue.
My attention pisses me off more than it should.
Not because she’s pretty. Rothwell still has pretty girls. Not because she’s scared, because fear is everywhere. It’s the combination. Control layered over desperation. Rage held tight instead of spent.
It doesn’t sit right.
Women who look like this usually have a reason. Protection. Resources. Connections. The kind that don’t show on the surface.
Black market, maybe.
I watch her hands again. Empty. No blade. No hidden weight at her waist. If she has access to weapons, she’s not carrying them into the Hunt.
Which raises another question. If she had real backing, real leverage, why would she be here at all?
I tap twice against the railing.
Sting answers from somewhere to my right, high and close. Too eager. He’ll want to close fast, test her reactions, see how she breaks. I don’t stop him. I adjust around him.
Rogue stays silent. Of course he does. He’s already moved without announcing it.
The mall opens and closes around us in layers. Stores become cover. Escalators become funnels. The Rot offers angles if you know how to read them. I’ve been walking these massive corridors since before the lights went dim, since before everything in the town of Rothwell went to shit. Hell, since people were still happy to pretend the town had a future and its bright, shiny shopping mall—the “Galleria”— bustled with all that stupid glory.
She pauses near a side passage, breath controlled, head tilting. I see it then, the calculation. She’s testing the space, not just reacting to it.
