Chapter 26
Brooke
Ikeep thinking about Seth as a kid.
Ten years old. An age when most children worry about school or friends, not being chained in a basement by their father.
This one probably feels a lot like it.
The thought keeps circling in my head while I sit here surrounded by concrete walls, blood and despair. Richard used to drag him downstairs and leave him there in the dark as if fear was some kind of lesson a child needed to learn.
I'm an adult and I can barely breathe through this.
I try to imagine what it must have felt like for him. The cold floor. The silence after the door closed above him. The knowledge that the man who was supposed to protect him was the one who locked him down there.
Seth lived through that kind of terror when he was a child.
And somehow he still grew into the man I love.
Somehow he still became loyal, protective, and capable of loving someone like me with a devotion that still feels almost impossible.
The basement around me stays quiet except for the slow shifting sounds of people trying to rest.
When I finally look up, I notice Miles sitting on the edge of his cot across the room.
He is still awake.
His back curves forward slightly as his elbows rest on his knees. A strip of gauze covers the side of his face and an eye patch is wrapped tight around his head. The white fabric has already soaked through in places where blood bled into it earlier.
He doesn’t look at me right away. He simply sits there breathing slowly, as if he is concentrating on the effort of holding himself together. He looks up when he hears me.
Something shifts in his expression. Like he already knows.
“I lost it.”
Miles’s mouth opens, then closes. His good eye fills instantly.
“I’m so sorry,” he says.
For a second, neither of us speak.
Pipes creak overhead. Someone coughs from the far corner.
“I don’t feel anything,” I admit quietly. “Not the way I should.”
Miles looks at me.
“I feel like something got ripped out of me and now there is just space where it used to be.”
He swallows.
“You’re allowed to feel that.”
“I don’t have time to.”
Tears spill down my face before I can stop them. I wipe them away hard with the back of my hand, irritated with myself for letting them exist at all.
“There is no point in crying now,” I sigh, my voice tight. “It's better this way. Better now than whatever way they plan to kill me tomorrow.”
Miles shakes his head.
“No,” he says. “We are going to survive.”
I almost laugh at that.
I look at him properly then.
The patch strapped too tight around his skull. The faint tremor in his hands that he keeps tucking under his thighs so I won’t see it. The way his spine stays straight anyway, like dignity is the last thing he has and he refuses to give it up.
“On the hunt, we can grab branches, rocks, anything. We aren't going to let them just kill us out there.”
“They will kill us,” I say.
“They are going to try.”
Then he shifts forward and lowers his voice.
“If they move us,” he says, “you stay near me. If you see an opening, you take it. You don't wait for anyone’s permission. You don't wait for me.”
My chest tightens at that.
“You do not get to martyr yourself.”
He gives a faint, crooked half smile.
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
The next night, before the hunt begins, they call my name.
The physician’s office smells the same, bleach, metal, blood, and antiseptic. He unwraps my arm carefully, examining the swelling, the bruising, the ugly angles of my wrist.
It still hurts. The constant dull pulse is a reminder.
Sophie appears in the doorway, arms crossed.
“Is she ready?” she asks. “For the hunt.”
The physician doesn’t look at her. “She shouldn’t be running. She has significant internal bleeding.”
Sophie scoffs. “Everyone’s bleeding.” She steps closer, gaze raking over me. “She’s not special. She’ll participate.”
Then she turns and leaves.
The physician finishes rewrapping my arm without speaking. His movements are careful and efficient as he secures the wrap around my wrist and forearm. When he finishes, his hands remain there for a moment longer than necessary.
“I cannot help you,” he says quietly.
I nod because I already understand that.
He glances toward the door before leaning slightly closer. Something cool presses briefly against the inside of my wrist as he finishes sealing the wrap.
A scalpel.
It sits hidden beneath the layers of fabric, positioned so I will be able to reach it if I need to.
My breath catches.
He looks me in the eye for the first time since I arrived here.
“I have seen what they do to people during the Hunt,” he lowers his voice. “You do not want to experience it.”
The words settle heavy in my chest.
“If they find you,” he continues, “use it on yourself before they do their worst.”
He is not offering me a weapon.
He is offering me a way out.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
He nods once.
“Good luck to you, Brooke.”
I'm not going to use it on myself. If they want a hunt, I'm going to make them bleed for it.
After the physician finishes, the guards escort me back to the basement. A dress waits folded neatly on the cot.
It is soft cotton, pure white, sleeveless. It looks like something meant for a summer picnic or a ceremony. It is not armor. It is not meant for running. It is meant to be seen, exposed, easy to find in the woods.
Sophie stands in front of me, already dressed in black, her curved blades strapped to her thighs.
“I picked this one special,” she smiles as she tosses a pair of white flats onto the cot. “It will make it easier for us to find you. You can't exactly blend into the trees.”
I don't respond.
“Good luck,” she adds lightly. “If I find you first, I will make it quick.”
I hold her gaze for as long as I can before turning away to get dressed.
I sit back down on the edge of the cot to slide my feet into the shoes, and that is when I feel it.
Warmth spreads slowly beneath the thin fabric, followed by a damp heaviness that makes my breath catch.
The sensation is unmistakable, the sickening awareness that something is still happening inside my body whether I want to face it or not.
I look down.
Blood has already soaked through my underwear.
I press a hand there carefully and look back up at Sophie. “I’m bleeding. It is going to go through the dress.”
She shrugs, completely unbothered. “You'll be bleeding more soon.”
I hold her gaze for a second, calm enough that it almost surprises me.
If she tries to kill me first, the scalpel goes into her before anyone else.
I finish dressing without another word.
Sophie leads me out of the basement cells and up the stairs toward the game room. Each step feels heavier than the last.
The doors to the game room are already open.
Elliot stands at the center of the room like a host about to begin a performance.
He is dressed in black from head to toe, boots polished, movements unhurried.
A wolf mask rests in his hands, its empty eyes fixed forward.
A chainsaw hangs at his side, the weight of it obvious in the way his grip settles around the handle.
He looks pleased, almost reverent, like this is the part he enjoys most.
Asher lounges near the bar, also dressed in black, a fox mask tucked under one arm. He checks his crossbow with quiet precision, fingers running along the string, then the bolts lined up beside him. The tips catch the overhead lights. He smiles to himself as he works.
Knox stands closer to the wall, broad shoulders rolling slowly as if loosening up before a workout. A bear mask rests against his thigh. His axe is already in his hands, freshly sharpened, the wide blade reflecting light with every subtle shift of his stance.
Sophie joins them last, dressed in black like the rest, a sheep mask dangling loosely from her fingers. The contrast makes my stomach turn. Her expression focused, almost serene.
The room feels staged, as if everything in it has been placed with intention for what is about to happen.
The others are brought in behind me, Miles, Emma, Sarah, and Jared. All of us are dressed in white. Standing together, we look like sacrifices lined up at the altar.
Elliot steps forward, smiling with ease. “Here are the rules. When the first siren sounds, you run. You hide. You do whatever you think will keep you alive. You will have a head start.”
He begins pacing slowly, the chainsaw resting across his shoulders.
“When the second siren sounds, your head start is over. That is when the hunt begins.”
He stops and glances toward the side door.
“There will also be armed guards positioned throughout the forest to ensure no one breaks protocol or tries anything clever. They are not here to hunt. They are here to make sure you follow the rules.”
My stomach sinks.
Elliot turns back to us and raises an eyebrow.
“If you manage to breach the perimeter and make it past the gates, you're free. You win. You escape.”
He smiles, wider now.
“No one ever has.”
I can feel Emma trembling beside me. Her breathing is shallow. Her eyes dart from face to face, trying to decide who to fear the most.
“This game usually produces zero survivors,” Elliot continues. “If you survive the hunt itself, and we find you, your execution will follow shortly afterward.”
I catch movement near the corner of the room.
Enzo stands beside one of the side doors, dressed in all black, a cattle prod slung over his shoulder. He's smiling. Not wide, not performative, just relaxed, entertained.
I don't know whether to feel sick or furious.
Elliot turns his attention back to us.
“Any questions?”
Emma takes a shaky breath. “I—”
Elliot cuts her off without looking at her. “All right. On your mark.”
My muscles lock in place.
“Get set.”
My breath stalls in my throat.
“Go.”