Audience.
My jaw tightens. This isn’t war. This isn’t a raid. This is theater.
He’s turned me intocontent.
I bare my teeth, but the projection keeps grinning, oblivious. “Oh, and one more thing! There are other contestants. Don’t eat them all at once, hmm? We need the tension.”
The feed cuts out. The corridor lights flicker, and somewhere in the distance, a scream ricochets off the metal.
I start walking.
Every step echoes. My boots hit the floor with a hollow thud, and my shadow stretches long behind me. I test my senses. The air smells faintly of human sweat and fear. My ears pick up the faint whir of moving walls, the distant hiss of something venting gas. Somewhere far off, a rhythmic clicking—mechanical, deliberate. The maze shifts.
Then I catch it—a scent. Sweet. Warm. Alive.Prey.
I follow.
The corridor branches, and I press a palm to the wall. It’s vibrating—alive in its own way. My claws sink in just enough to leave a mark. I like marking things. It means I’ve been here. It means I’m coming back.
When I reach the corner, I hear voices.
Two humans, maybe three. Their panic is a tangible thing, thickening the air. I peer through a break in the wall—an observation slit disguised as a seam—and there they are: civilians. Soft, trembling, clutching each other like that’ll keep them safe. Their clothes are the same as mine—white jumpsuits, spotless and anonymous.
A girl with bright hair sobs, “I want to go home.” Another slaps her. “Shut up. You’ll get us killed.”
And then the Maze answers.
The floor under them splits open. One of them screams. The air flash-freezes in a burst of mist, and the sobbing girl solidifies mid-breath—her mouth open, her eyes wide. Then gravity returns, and she shatters like glass. Pieces scatter across the floor, glittering red under the sterile lights.
The screen above flickers. Dirk’s voice bursts through, giddy: “Oooooh! Style points! 8.5 for the landing!”
The others run. I don’t blame them. Fear smells good, but theirs stinks of despair. There’s no thrill in this kind of hunt.
I watch them vanish into the next corridor before stepping back, every muscle thrumming. This isn’t a prison.
It’s a show.
And I’m supposed to perform.
I keep moving, staying low, letting the maze whisper its secrets. Each corridor smells different—one reeks of antiseptic, another of copper and smoke. The walls shift behind me, closing off the path I took. Good. It means I’m going forward.
I pass through a chamber where light pulses in sync with a heartbeat. Not mine. The floor ripples like fluid. I crouch and touch it. It’s warm. It hums. Organic tech—living architecture. Ingenious. I hate how much I admire it.
Then I hear it: a whisper of movement behind me. I spin, claws out. Nothing. Just the lights flickering overhead. But the scent is new—feminine. Sharp with adrenaline. Human, but different. Not prey. Not soft.
I shake it off and keep walking. Whatever she is, she’s not mine to worry about. Yet.
The maze leads me downward, spiraling through corridors that feel tighter the deeper I go. Symbols etch themselves onto the walls as I pass—patterns that rearrange when I blink. The place is rewriting itself around me, adapting to my presence. Testing me.
A trapdoor opens without sound under my left foot. Reflex saves me. I twist, catch the edge, and haul myself up just as spikes slam shut where my legs should be. My laugh echoes through the corridor, wild and low. “Nice try.”
Through the hum of shifting machinery, another voice breaks through the comms. Human again. Calm. Steady. Female.
“Attention players,” she says. “Teams are being assigned. You’ll find your group in the nearest marked chamber. Cooperation increases survival odds.”
It’s not Dirk this time. It’s someone else—someone trying to help. Her voice is clean, clipped, intelligent. I like it. It cuts through the chaos like a knife.
I start running.
