2. Midnight Hunt
2
MIDNIGHT HUNT
~JESSICA~
N ight falls differently in Dead Knot.
Where other sectors of the academy embrace darkness with strategic lighting and security patrols, here the shadows are absolute—hungry voids that devour any semblance of safety. Streetlamps stand like hollow sentinels, most shattered years ago and never replaced. Those that still function flicker erratically, casting sickly yellow pools that seem to emphasize the darkness rather than dispel it.
I move through this fractured landscape with practiced ease, each step deliberate. The campus stretches before me like a grotesque patchwork quilt, each sector a testament to the academy's twisted hierarchy.
To my left, Hard Knot gleams in the distance—a collection of pristine buildings with manicured lawns and working fountains. Even at this hour, warm light spills from windows, illuminating the paths where privileged Omegas and their Alpha suitors stroll without fear. The air there smells of expensive perfume and entitlement.
Perfection preserved for those who play by the rules.
Straight ahead lies Savage Knot, where buildings stand taller, more imposing. Training facilities and combat arenas dominate the skyline, their brutal architecture a reflection of their purpose. Even from this distance, I can make out figures moving in the lit windows—Alphas honing their bodies into weapons, preparing for whatever violence tomorrow might bring.
And then there's Dead Knot—my kingdom of broken concrete and forgotten souls. Once the original heart of the academy, now a dumping ground for those deemed irredeemable. Buildings that might have been beautiful once, now crumbling under the weight of neglect. Streets littered with debris and darker things. The air here tastes of desperation and defiance in equal measure.
Each sector a perfect microcosm of the system that created it.
Control through division. Power maintained by convincing everyone there's somewhere lower to fall, someone worse off than themselves. The prestigious Hard Knot Omegas look down on the Savage Knot fighters, who in turn sneer at those of us in Dead Knot—the actual damned who couldn't submit, couldn't conform, couldn't be what the world demanded.
My fingers brush against the worn stone wall separating Dead Knot from the neutral territory I'm currently traversing. The boundary is more psychological than physical—a line everyone knows not to cross unless they're prepared for the consequences.
Which is exactly why I'm crossing it tonight.
The moment I step past the invisible threshold, the atmosphere shifts. The relative quiet of neutral ground gives way to a charged silence that raises the hair on my arms. No ambient sounds of life—no distant laughter, no music drifting from dorms, no voices calling to friends.
Just silence, heavy and expectant.
They're waiting for me.
I stop, taking in the scene with all my senses. Nothing moves in the shadows, yet I can feel eyes tracking me from windows, from rooftops, from the spaces between buildings. Predators, thinking they've lured prey into their hunting grounds.
A smile spreads across my face—not the practiced, pleasant mask I wear for professors and administrators, but the genuine article. Wild. Feral. Possibly unhinged, if Emilia's concerned glances are anything to go by.
I can't help it. The tension in the air, the imminent violence, the knowledge that at least a dozen Alphas are about to try their luck against me—it sets something alight in my blood. Something that's been dormant since my last kill.
They think I'm prey. How adorable.
My rifle is secured against my back, concealed beneath a dark jacket that also hides various other accessories—tools for a hunt I hadn't planned on but will happily participate in. My hands slip into my pockets, left retrieving my favorite knife while right wraps around the compact Glock. I disengage the safety with my thumb, the tiny click impossibly loud in the stillness.
I close my eyes, taking several deep breaths.
In. Out. In. Out.
The world around me sharpens, comes into focus through senses beyond sight. Dead Knot has its own distinctive perfume—mold and metal, blood and cheap liquor, fear and fury. Beneath it all runs the current of Alpha pheromones, distinctive as fingerprints to those who know what to look for.
There. A trace of cedar and gunpowder to the east—likely perched on the administration building.
There. Sandalwood and sweat from the direction of the old library.
There. Something chemical and sharp from the dormitories—probably one of the lab rats from the North Wing, slumming it for the night.
I count six... no, seven distinct Alpha scents. More than I expected. Word travels fast in Dead Knot; clearly my little execution earlier has stirred the hornet's nest.
Good. I could use the exercise.
Taking one final breath, I open my eyes. My path lies straight ahead—through the gauntlet of waiting Alphas to the abandoned arts building that serves as my second home. I could go around, take the tunnels beneath campus, but where's the fun in that?
Sometimes a girl just needs to run.
And so I do.
The moment I break from my stationary position, the first shot rings out. It shatters the window to my left, glass exploding outward in a deadly halo that catches the moonlight. I don't flinch, don't alter my course—the shot was a warning, a declaration of intent rather than a genuine attempt.
They want to play. Fine by me.
I cut right abruptly, veering away from my original path. Let them think they're herding me—better to choose the battlefield than have it chosen for you. My boots hit the pavement in a rhythm that feels like a heartbeat, steady and sure despite the adrenaline flooding my system.
The second shot comes closer, kicking up concrete dust mere inches from my feet. This one meant business. I zigzag, my trajectory now unpredictable, making myself a more difficult target as I race toward the shadows between two looming structures.
A figure detaches from the darkness ahead—male, tall, built like he spends more time in the gym than in class. He moves to intercept me, confidence written in every line of his body. Poor bastard doesn't realize I've already calculated my response, already mapped the precise point of our collision.
Three steps before we meet, I drop to a slide, the concrete tearing at my leggings but giving me the perfect angle. My knife finds the tender spot behind his knee, slicing through muscle and tendons with surgical precision. He goes down with a howl that's cut short when my elbow connects with his windpipe on my way past.
One down.
I don't wait to see if he recovers. He won't, not quickly anyway.
Back on my feet, I sprint toward a narrow passage between buildings. Overhead, someone's moving along the rooftops—I catch a glimpse of a rifle barrel glinting in the moonlight. Amateur. If you're going to snipe, don't let your weapon catch the light.
Another shot, this one better aimed. I feel the bullet's path displace the air near my ear, too close for comfort. I veer left, seeking cover behind a rusted dumpster just as two more shots punch into the metal.
The scent of cedar and gunpowder is stronger now—my rooftop friend is moving to maintain line of sight. I need to break that connection, force them to waste time repositioning. Sprinting from my temporary shelter, I aim for the narrow alley that will lead me toward the arts building.
Almost there.
A miscalculation—I sense rather than see the Alpha waiting around the corner. Too late to change course, I brace for impact instead, letting the collision work in my favor. We go down in a tangle of limbs, his bulk momentarily pinning me. His growl of triumph dies when he realizes my knife is pressed against his femoral artery, the tip already drawing blood.
"Fuck," he hisses, genuine fear replacing the arrogance in his eyes.
"Not tonight, sweetheart," I reply, twisting free of his grasp. I could kill him—it would be easy, efficient—but I'm not in the business of random executions. My targets are chosen with purpose, with meaning. This is just an idiot playing a game he doesn't understand.
Instead, I slam the butt of my knife against his temple, leaving him dazed but alive. A warning, a lesson he'll hopefully remember.
Two down. Five to go.
Back on my feet, I assess my position. The arts building is closer now, its gothic spires reaching toward a sky heavy with clouds. The moon keeps playing peek-a-boo, alternately bathing the scene in silver light and plunging it into darkness. I use those rhythmic shifts to my advantage, moving during the dark periods, freezing in shadow when light floods the campus.
A bullet grazes my side during one such dash, tearing through jacket and shirt to leave a burning line along my ribs. I hiss through my teeth, more annoyed than hurt. Blood blooms, warm against my skin, but the wound is superficial—a scratch, nothing more.
Still. Careless. Focus, Vesper.
I adjust my route again, cutting through an area littered with the skeletal remains of what might have been a garden once. Dead trees reach toward me with gnarled branches, catching at my clothes like desperate hands. I slash through them with my knife, the dead wood giving way easily.
Two Alphas emerge from behind a stone bench, moving with the synchronized precision that suggests pack training. This won't be as easy as the others. They flank me, trying to cut off all avenues of escape, their movements mirroring each other with practiced ease.
"Nowhere to run, Omega," the one on the left calls, his voice carrying that particular cadence of someone who's used to being obeyed. "Why don't you make this easy on yourself?"
I bare my teeth in what might charitably be called a smile. "Where would be the fun in that?"
They rush me simultaneously, as I knew they would. Pack tactics, effective against most opponents. But I'm not most opponents.
I drop to one knee, turning what should be my center of gravity into empty space. The Alpha on the right stumbles, momentum carrying him forward into empty air. I rise as he passes, my knife finding the soft spot beneath his ribs—not deep enough to kill, but enough to take him out of the fight.
His partner adapts quickly, changing trajectory to compensate. He's good—better than the others, with the kind of training that suggests military background. His fist connects with my shoulder, sending a shock of pain down my arm.
Finally. Someone who might actually be a challenge.
We trade blows in a deadly dance, his superior strength matched against my speed and precision. He lands a kick to my thigh that will definitely bruise, but I counter with an elbow to his solar plexus that leaves him gasping. When he recovers, there's grudging respect in his eyes.
"You fight well," he acknowledges, circling me warily. "For an Omega."
The qualifier ruins any goodwill his compliment might have earned. "And you bleed well," I reply, nodding toward the spreading stain on his shirt—evidence of a cut he hadn't even noticed in the heat of combat. "For an Alpha."
His eyes widen, hand going to the wound as if just now registering the pain. I use his moment of distraction to close the distance, my knee connecting with his groin with enough force to lift him momentarily off his feet. As he doubles over, my elbow comes down on the back of his neck, driving him to the ground.
I don't wait to see if he stays down. Four opponents neutralized, and I'm still too exposed.
Three more to go, and I'm running out of time.
The arts building looms closer now, its massive doors practically calling my name. I sprint the final distance, aware of movement converging on my position from multiple directions. The rooftop sniper has repositioned, evidenced by the bullet that chips stone near my head as I race up the steps.
I slide the final few feet, bullets peppering the space where I would have been standing. My shoulder hits the heavy wooden door with enough force to send pain radiating down my arm, but it gives way, swinging inward with a groan of ancient hinges.
Inside, the grand foyer stretches before me—a cavernous space of marble and mahogany, once the crown jewel of Knot Academy. Now it's a shadow of its former glory, the floor cracked, the elaborate murals defaced by decades of neglect and vandalism.
I don't pause to appreciate the tragic beauty; my sanctuary lies several floors up, and I'm not out of danger yet. The Alphas will follow—territorial instinct and wounded pride will drive them to finish what they started.
Instead of taking the main staircase, I veer left toward a service door hidden behind what was once a reception desk. It leads to a narrow stairwell, rarely used even when this building was operational. The perfect escape route—or it would be, if the door wasn't locked.
"Fuck," I mutter, trying the handle again. It refuses to budge.
Behind me, I hear the main doors crash open, voices calling to each other as my pursuers enter the building. I'm running out of options and time.
Think, Vesper. Think.
The alleyway. There's an entrance to the underground tunnels just outside, hidden beneath a dumpster that hasn't been emptied since before I enrolled. If I can reach it before they surround me...
I backtrack, keeping to the shadows along the wall. The Alphas have spread out, searching the vast foyer methodically. They're being more cautious now, having learned from their fallen comrades that I'm not easy prey.
I time my dash perfectly, using a moment when their attention is directed elsewhere to slip through a side exit. The alley beyond is narrow, dark, and—most importantly—seems empty of immediate threats.
Almost home free.
I make it halfway down the alley before I realize my mistake. The dumpster isn't where it should be—moved recently, from the looks of the marks on the pavement. Which means my escape route is exposed.
Which means this is a trap.
I spin on my heel, ready to retreat, only to find the entrance blocked by three figures. The remaining Alphas, having anticipated my move. Behind me, the alley ends in a brick wall too high to scale quickly.
Dead end.
I raise my gun, mentally calculating ammunition and odds. Three against one, in an enclosed space with no cover. Not ideal, but I've survived worse.
"End of the line, Omega," one calls, his smirk visible even in the dim light. "Though I gotta say, you've given us quite the chase."
I don't waste breath on a reply, adjusting my stance for better balance. My finger tightens on the trigger, muscles tensing in anticipation.
That's when it happens—a blur of movement so fast I almost miss it, a shift in the air behind me where no movement should be possible. Before I can react, an arm wraps around my waist like a steel band while another presses against my mouth, stifling any sound I might make.
I'm pulled backward against a body that feels like it's carved from stone—tall, broad, radiating heat and strength in equal measure. My brain registers Alpha and danger simultaneously, instinct screaming at me to fight despite the overwhelming physical disparity.
But then his scent hits me—dark and rich, like aged bourbon and burnt sugar, with undertones of something earthy and primal. A scent I know intimately, one etched into my memory alongside blue eyes and rain-soaked promises.
My body recognizes it before my mind fully processes the implications, going still against the broad chest at my back. For a heartbeat, time seems suspended, the night holding its breath along with me.
The Alphas at the alley entrance have raised their weapons, ready to fire, but they hesitate. Confusion crosses their features as they take in the tableau—me, captured but unresisting, held by a figure they clearly hadn't expected.
I can't see the face of the Alpha holding me, but I don't need to. I know exactly who stands behind me, can feel the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat against my back. What I don't know is why he's here, why he's broken the most fundamental rule of our arrangement.
Never to meet in public. Never to acknowledge our connection. Never to risk exposure.
The Alphas lower their weapons slightly, uncertainty replacing the triumph in their expressions. One takes a cautious step forward, peering through the darkness.
"Who the fuck—" he begins, but falls silent as my captor shifts slightly, moonlight catching on the mask that covers the upper half of his face.
Recognition dawns in their eyes—not of the man specifically, but of what he represents. The mask, the specific shade of deep crimson, the subtle insignia embossed on the leather. These are markers of power beyond Knot Academy's limited hierarchy, symbols that transcend the petty squabbles of campus territory.
My captor's voice, when it comes, resonates with a quiet authority that needs no volume to command attention.
"Tag," he says, the single word carrying layers of meaning only I can fully comprehend. "You're it."