Chapter 4
THE FAWN
The morning light filters through my curtains, casting a soft glow across my bedroom. I groan, burying my face in my pillow as the events of last night come rushing back.
Despite the pounding in my head and the cottony dryness of my mouth, a small smile tugs at my lips. It's been a long time since I let myself let go like that, since I allowed myself to get swept up in the moment and just enjoy something without overthinking every little detail.
I roll out of bed, wincing as my feet hit the cold hardwood floor, and stumble to the bathroom. When I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I barely recognize myself. My hair is a wild mess, my mascara smudged beneath my eyes, and there's a brightness to my gaze that wasn't there before. A spark of life.
I splash some water on my face, brushing my teeth to get rid of the stale taste of last night's drinks. As I go through the motions of my morning routine, my mind drifts back to Lucian, to the feel of his hands on my body and the intensity of his gaze behind that mask.
I shake my head, pushing the thoughts aside. It was just one night, a fleeting moment of connection in a sea of masks and anonymity. I'll never see him again, and that's probably for the best. I've got enough complications in my life without adding a mysterious stranger to the mix.
But that doesn't mean I can't ride that high.
I pull on my running shoes and head out into the crisp morning air. It feels like something has shifted, some invisible barrier crumbling away to reveal a world of new opportunities.
I take off down the street, my feet pounding against the pavement in a steady rhythm. The physical exertion feels good, the burn in my muscles chasing away the lingering fog of my hangover. I let my mind wander as I run, the familiar streets blurring together until I find myself in a part of town I rarely venture to anymore.
It's a neighborhood that's seen better days, the once thriving community now a ghost of its former self. Abandoned buildings line the streets, their windows boarded up and their walls tagged with graffiti. There's a strange sort of beauty to the suburban decay, a melancholy poetry in the way ivy and weeds slowly reclaim what man has left behind.
I slow to a walk, taking in my surroundings. There's always been something about liminal spaces that calls to me, these in-between places that exist outside of time and expectation. Places where the normal rules don't seem to apply. Where anything could happen.
An abrupt ringing jolts me out of my reverie, the sound harsh and jarring in the stillness. I freeze, my eyes scanning the area for the source of the noise. There, on the corner, is an old payphone, the kind that's all but disappeared in the age of cell phones and instant communication.
The few that are left certainly never ring.
At first, I think it's a dream. Or maybe alcohol poisoning can have delayed onset, not that I drank that much. But when it keeps ringing, I have to accept the fact that I'm very much awake.
And, at least as far as I can assess, perfectly sane.
I approach it warily, half-convinced I'm still drunk or dreaming. The ringing continues, insistent and demanding, as if the phone itself is urging me to answer. I hesitate, my hand hovering over the receiver.
This is crazy.
It has to be a prank, or a wrong number. A glitch in the matrix.
If this were a horror movie and I were watching myself on-screen, I'd be yelling, "Don't do it, you crazy bitch!" right now. Because nothing good ever happens when an abandoned payphone in an abandoned part of town starts ringing off the hook.
But there's a part of me, that reckless, impulsive part that's been dormant for far too long and is now wide awake, that wants to answer. That part that's tired of always playing it safe, of letting fear dictate my choices.
Am I really going to let this be another question that haunts me?
Before I can talk myself out of it, I lift the receiver to my ear, my heart pounding in my chest.
"Hello?" My voice sounds small and uncertain, almost lost in the crackling static of the line.
"Aria Moreau."
The voice on the other end is distorted, almost mechanical, but there's no mistaking the way it says my name. Like a statement of fact, a declaration of ownership.
"Who is this?" I demand, my grip tightening on the phone. "Is this some kind of joke?"
There's a pause, a moment of silence that stretches on for an eternity. And then, "We played your game last night. Now it's time for you to play mine."
A chill runs down my spine, a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead. "Natalie, if this is you with a voice changer, it's not funny. I'm hanging up."
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," the voice says, a hint of amusement coloring its distorted tone. Yeah, he's definitely using some kind of voice changer, like a serial killer in an '80s slasher flick. And given the fact that I'm talking to him on a payphone, I'm starting to feel like I'm in one.
"Wh-who is this?" I ask, hating myself for trembling.
"Check your phone."
With shaking hands, I pull my cell from my pocket. There's a new message from an unknown number. A picture? I open it, my breath catching in my throat as the image loads.
It's a photo of my little sister, Ava, walking out of her college dorm. The angle is strange, almost voyeuristic, clearly taken from a distance without her knowledge. Before I can fully process what I'm seeing, another picture comes through. This one is of my mother puttering around in her garden, blissfully unaware of the camera trained on her.
"What the hell is this?" I hiss into the phone, my voice trembling with equal parts fear and rage. "Who are you? What do you want from me?"
"You've been chosen, Aria," the voice says, maddeningly calm in the face of my panic. "Chosen to play a very exclusive game. A hunt, to be precise."
"A hunt?" I repeat, my mind reeling as I try to make sense of his words. "What are you talking about? What kind of sick game is this?"
"The rules of the game are simple," he continues, ignoring my questions. "Rule number one. I am the Hunter, and you are the fawn. Tomorrow morning at seven sharp, you will leave behind your life as Aria Moreau. As the fawn, your one and only goal and purpose in life is to run. To evade capture for as long as possible.”
"And if I don't?" I demand. "What happens if you catch me?"
There's a long pause full of implications that leave an empty pit in my stomach.
I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry as sandpaper. This guy is a fucking psychopath. "And if I refuse to play?"
"Then the Hunt ends before it begins," he says, his voice hardening. "And your loved ones pay the price. Your sister, your mother, your best friend. Their lives are forfeit if you choose not to participate."
Tears sting my eyes, hot and bitter as the reality of the situation sinks in. This can't be happening. This has to be some kind of nightmare, a fever dream brought on by too much alcohol and stress.
But deep down, I know it's real.
This is fucking real.
"Why me?" I whisper. "Why are you doing this to me?"
"Rule number two," he continues, ignoring my question. "The fawn may use any and all means to escape and evade the Hunter, up to and including lethal force, with one notable exception detailed in rule number three. Any legal or fiscal consequences for said tactics will be remediated by the Order."
"The Order?" I choke out. "What the hell is the Order?"
"Tonight, you will receive a package containing everything you need to fulfill your role as the fawn," he continues, ignoring me once again. "Rule number three. The one thing the fawn may not do in order to evade capture is to enlist outside help that would make any external parties aware of the hunt. This includes everyone from police to family, friends, and random civilians. If the fawn chooses to violate this rule, the Hunt will immediately come to an end, and the fawn immediately forfeits the lives of the following associates."
I freeze, listening.
"Ava Moreau, Olivia Moreau, and Natalie Chen."
The world spins around me as his words sink in, each one hitting me like a physical blow. I clutch the side of the phone booth, my knuckles turning white as I struggle to stay upright. My mind races, trying to make sense of the nightmare unfolding before me, but it's like trying to hold onto smoke.
He continues, his voice picking up speed as he rattles off the rules like a twisted game show host. "Rule number four. There will be seven hunts. Each hunt may last for as long as it takes for the Hunter to find and claim the fawn, up to a maximum of seven days. If the fawn manages to evade the Hunter for longer than seven days during any of the seven hunts, the game is over and the fawn is victorious."
Seven hunts.
Seven chances to escape, to outrun this madman and his sick game.
"Rule number six, the Hunter may not use any of the resources the fawn has been given to track her location. Rule number seven—if I catch you during the first six hunts, I fuck you."
I can't breathe.
I can't think.
This can't be happening.
It has to be a dream, a hallucination, a bad trip. But the cold metal of the phone booth bites into my skin, the static on the line crackling in my ear, and I know with a sinking certainty that this is all too real.
"And what happens," I manage to choke out, my voice barely above a whisper, "during the seventh hunt?"
There's another pause, a moment of silence that stretches on for an eternity. And then, in a voice as cold and final as stone, he purrs his reply.
"If I catch you during the seventh and final hunt, I kill you."
What?
"Why are you doing this?" I demand, my voice breaking on the words. "What the hell do you want from me?"
But he ignores my questions, his voice infuriatingly calm as he continues. "A convincing alibi will be provided for your absence, and should you emerge from the Hunt as the victor, you will be able to go back to your life with a considerable monetary reward that should more than make up for the trouble."
A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat, edging on a sob.
Money?
He thinks money can make up for this?
For the terror, the violation, the sheer insanity of what he's proposing?
"I suggest you spend the evening preparing," he says, his tone almost bored now. "The Hunt begins at seven AM sharp."
And with that, the line goes dead, leaving me alone in the phone booth with nothing but the sound of my own ragged breathing and the pounding of my heart in my ears.
I drop the phone, letting it dangle and bounce from the curled cord like a dead body swinging from a hangman's noose. I don't know how long I stand there, frozen in shock and disbelief. It could be seconds, minutes, hours. Time has lost all meaning, all sense of reality shattered by the twisted game I've been forced into.
This can't be real.
And yet, it is.
He knows who I am and how to get to me. And if I don't play his fucked up game, he'll kill the people I love the most.
Well, bring it on, motherfucker.
I'll be ready. And when the dust settles, only one of us will be left standing.
I just pray to God it's me.