Chapter 2 Sadie
SADIE
The cursor on my screen blinks as I type another line of code. I roll my shoulders, trying to work out the tension that’s been building since I arrived at the office this morning. Something feels... off.
I glance up from my workstation, scanning the open-concept office.
Nothing unusual occurs as my colleagues are focused on their screens, and there’s an occasional murmur of conversation, fingers tapping on keyboards.
Even so, the sensation of being observed persists, like a phantom itch between my shoulder blades.
I return to my code, forcing myself to focus. This security patch needs to be completed by the end of the day, and I won’t let an irrational feeling derail my productivity. I’m not prone to paranoia—I deal in facts, patterns, evidence. There’s nothing concrete to suggest anyone’s watching me.
Still, I find myself adjusting my privacy screen on my display ensuring the best coverage leaving no chance for it to be seen from the hallway.
The break room is empty when I enter at midday. I unpack my lunch—a meal prep container with quinoa, roasted vegetables, and grilled chicken—and take a seat facing the door. Old habit. I always prefer to see who’s coming and going.
“There you are!” Jolene drops her lunch bag on the table and slides into the chair across from me. Her curly hair is pulled back in a messy bun today, her smile bright. “I’ve been buried in that financial sector firewall all morning. My brain is actual mush.”
“The Wellington account?” I take a bite of my lunch. “That system architecture is from the Jurassic period.”
“Exactly. Dinosaur code that should’ve been extinct ages ago.” She unwraps her sandwich, studies it for a moment. “So, did you see that email about the company retreat? Two days of ‘team building’ in cabins without decent Wi-Fi. Kill me now.”
I nod, half-listening as she details her objections to mandatory fun. My eyes drift to the glass wall separating us from the hallway, scanning for... what? Someone lurking? Watching?
“Earth to Sadie. You in there?” Jolene waves her hand in front of my face.
“Sorry, just thinking about that patch I’m working on.” I redirect my attention to her, pushing away the unease. “The retreat sounds terrible. Maybe we can volunteer to stay behind for essential system maintenance.
Jolene launches into a conspiracy theory about HR’s true motivations for the retreat, and I laugh at all the right moments.
I don’t mention the prickling sensation on the back of my neck, the sensation of being surveilled like a bug under glass.
There’s no logical reason to voice these concerns—not without evidence.
This is ridiculous—I’m letting my imagination run wild for no reason.
“So, besides planning our escape from team-building hell, what else is new?” I ask, spearing a piece of chicken with my fork.
“Oh! I finally tried that new ramen place over on 4th Street. Life-changing broth, Sadie. Seriously.” Jolene’s eyes light up as she describes the restaurant in detail—the atmosphere, the perfect egg consistency, the handmade noodles.
“I’ll have to check it out. Been living on meal prep and takeout from the same three places for months.”
“We should go together this weekend. Friday night? Unless you’ve got some exciting plans I don’t know about.” She raises an eyebrow expectantly.
“Just the usual—debugging other people’s messes and binge-watching that new cybercrime documentary series.” I smile. “Friday sounds perfect, actually.”
We chat about the documentary I’ve been watching, with Jolene interjecting theories about which famous hacks might be featured.
The conversation shifts to a new encryption protocol we’ve both been reading about, and I find myself genuinely engaged; relegating the prickling sensation to the back of my mind.
By the time we finish our lunches, we’ve mapped out dinner plans for Friday and debated the merits of various programming languages with the comfortable back-and-forth of best friends who respect each other’s expertise.
“Back to the salt mines,” Jo mutters, gathering her trash. “That Wellington firewall isn’t going to update itself.”
“Good luck with the dinosaur code.” I stand, packing up my container. “Let me know if you need another set of eyes on it later.”
We walk back to our workstations, and I settle into my chair, pulling up my project files with renewed focus. Whatever strange feeling I had earlier, I’ve successfully pushed it away. Time to get back to work.
As I turn my attention from my desk phone showing no missed calls, I notice a black envelope sitting squarely in the center of my keyboard—sleek, elegant, with a striking red trim along the edges. My name is written across the front in an elegant crimson script: “Sadie Reynolds.”
I freeze, staring at it. My workspace is organized—everything has its place, and this definitely doesn’t belong.
Everyone seems absorbed in their work, nothing unusual. I pick up the envelope cautiously, turning it over in my hands. It’s heavy, made of expensive paper, sealed with what appears to be wax—who even uses wax seals anymore?
“Hey, Marcus,” I call to the developer at the workstation beside mine. “Did you see anyone at my desk while I was at lunch?”
He swivels in his chair, headphones pushed down around his neck. “Nope, sorry. Been coding with noise-canceling headphones for the last hour.”
I turn to Amira across the aisle. “Did you notice anyone drop this off?”
She shakes her head, curiosity evident in her expression. “What is it?”
“I don’t know.” I hold up the envelope. “It was just sitting on my keyboard when I got back from lunch.”
Amira shrugs. “Maybe it was delivered with the internal mail?”
“Internal mail comes in those beige envelopes with the routing slips,” I reply, examining the black envelope more closely. No postmark, no mail room stamp.
I check with two more colleagues, but no one saw anything. No one knows where it came from or who left it. The envelope sits in my hands, unexplained and somehow ominous despite its elegant appearance.
I stare at the envelope for a full minute before my curiosity wins out and I break the wax seal and slide out several folded pages. The first is a letter on heavy cream stationery with an embossed header: “The Hollow’s Hunt.”
My heart rate accelerates as I read:
“Ms. Reynolds, your unique combination of intelligence, resourcefulness, and beauty has captured our attention. You’re hereby invited to participate in this year’s Hollow’s Hunt...”
The letter describes an exclusive event held at the club Purgatory. What follows makes my breath hitch—participants are “prey” in an elaborate hunt where fifteen masked men will pursue five selected women through a labyrinth over seventy-two hours.
“What the hell?” I whisper, scanning the attached non-disclosure agreement.
I immediately open a private browser window and search “Hollow’s Hunt.
” Almost nothing comes up—just vague references on obscure forums, whispers about an elite event for the powerful.
My searches hit dead ends, finding only rumors and speculation.
Whoever runs this keeps their digital footprint minimal—impressive in today’s world.
Returning to the documents, I read the NDA more carefully.
The language is explicit and chilling: “Participant acknowledges that by signing below, they willingly surrender their right to withhold consent during the seventy-two-hour duration of the Hunt, and potentially for one year following, should they be claimed...”
My first instinct is to tear the entire thing apart. What sane woman would agree to this? I should report it to someone—though who exactly, I’m not sure.
And yet...
My mind drifts to Melvin. Two years of missionary position with the lights off.
Two years of him finishing with a grunt while I lay there wondering if this was really what everyone made such a fuss about.
Since our breakup three years ago, I’ve avoided relationships entirely, instead burying myself in work.
I’ve had the occasional hook-ups that were just as disappointing.
I fold the papers, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through my body.
The thought of being pursued, wanted so intensely that someone would hunt me through a maze.
.. I press my thighs together under my desk, shocked at my body’s visceral reaction and knowing that those feelings are likely rooted in what happened to me in high school.
This is insanity. I slip the documents back into the envelope, but instead of throwing it away, I tuck it into my laptop bag.
Just to analyze later, I tell myself. Just to satisfy my curiosity.