Chapter 2
VI
I don’t stop running because I’m tired.
I stop because the noise behind me changes.
Not louder. Not closer. Quieter. The sound tightens, pulls inward, like something being drawn into a fist. The laughter cuts off. Footsteps spread, then narrow again.
I veer into the first opening I see and push against the torn gate of a lingerie store.
The metal screeches once, loud enough to make me wince, then stills.
Inside, the space smells like cheap perfume and polyester.
Lace hangs in shreds from wall pegs. A rack of bras lies overturned, underwires twisted together like mangled fingers.
I crouch behind the checkout counter and wait.
Like that’s not the first place they they’d think to look. But I need to gather my thoughts.
My pulse thuds hard enough to blur my vision. I press my palm against the floor tile and breathe through my nose, counting. One. Two. Three. Panic will do me no good here.
Footsteps pass the storefront. Not fast. Not slow. Measured. One set, then another, then a third. They don’t come inside. They don’t need to.
A woman cries somewhere outside, to the right. Close. Too close.
I inch toward the back of the store and peer out through a cracked display window into the corridor beyond.
The lights out there flicker weakly, throwing long shadows across the floor.
A girl stumbles into view, barefoot, limping hard on one leg.
Blood slicks her heel, smears the tile behind her.
Her hair hangs in her face, tangled and dark with sweat.
She glances back once and almost falls.
Three men move after her.
Not running. Walking. They’re spread just far enough apart to block the corridor, boxing her in without touching her.
One steps to the side, guiding her path without a word.
Another lifts his hand, palm out. She freezes mid-step, breath hitching, like her body understands the signal before her mind does.
The third man reaches her.
He takes her arm, firm and careful, fingers locking just above her elbow. She jerks instinctively, a thin sound tearing out of her throat, but he holds steady. Another man steps in behind her and brings a strap around her wrists. Quick. Practiced.
Her knees buckle.
They catch her before she hits the floor.
No shouting. No threats. No spectacle.
Mostly just resignation. On everyone’s part.
This part of the Rotter Hunt is over not only for this girl but also her captors. What waits ahead for her remains to be seen.
But that’s not my fucking problem.
The man at her arm speaks low, his mouth close to her ear. I can’t hear the words, but her shoulders sag as if something final has been said. The fight drains out of her in a rush, leaving her shaking, barely upright. Tears streaming, of course.
I crane my neck to see them move her down the corridor, steering her with light pressure, hands where they need to be. When they pass beneath a broken directory sign, one of them reaches up and taps it twice, and it flashes like it’s trying to come back on after a power outage.
It’s a signal.
From somewhere deeper in the mall, another tap answers back.
This isn’t random.
I shift my weight and the shopping bags I’m crouching on crackle. I still instantly, breath caught halfway in. Nothing changes. The corridor remains empty, quiet now except for the distant scrape of boots and the girl’s uneven breathing as she’s taken farther away.
I stay where I am.
Time stretches. My legs burn from my awkward crouch. Sweat cools on my back. The silence presses in, heavy enough to make my ears ring. I don’t move until the flickering lights outside dim again, then brighten, then settle into their sick rhythm.
I risk another look. The corridor is clear.
I ease back from the window and scan the store. The back room door hangs crooked from one hinge. A dressing room curtain stirs in a draft I can’t trace. Someone has spray-painted a number on the far wall, tall and clean. No symbol. No warning. Just a number.
What does that mean?
That bothers me more than the screams did.
I sink lower and force my breath steady. The mall hums around me, a low vibration I feel through my knees and palms. Somewhere, men move. Somewhere, decisions are made.
Somewhere women are captured, becoming Runts. Products of the Rotter Hunt.
These guys think they’re so clever, calling their prisoners Runts. Fucking bastards.
I replay what I saw of the woman just captured. The spacing. The timing. The way they cut her off without rushing. The way the strap appeared, ready, like it had been waiting in that pocket for a while. The tap on the sign. The answer.
Rules. Not written. Not spoken. Enforced anyway.
I think about the laughter I heard earlier, the sound that chased me into this store. That wasn’t the whole thing. That was noise on the surface. Distraction. Beneath it, something colder runs the show.
I swallow and flex my fingers, working the stiffness out. My body still wants to bolt, to keep moving until my legs give out, probably what got the barefoot girl caught. She ran straight until there was nowhere left to go.
I won’t do that.
A shadow passes the storefront again. This one pauses.
Shit.
I angle my head, listening.
Breathing. Controlled. Close enough that the hair on my arms lifts again. I stay still, teeth pressed together. The shadow shifts, then moves on.
They’re sweeping.
Not chasing. Clearing.
Maybe I can just stay here? No, that won’t do. I count to twenty before I move again.
When I do, I slide along the checkout counter and ease toward the back room, the place customers aren’t allowed to go, or weren’t allowed to go, back when this place was still a going concern.
The door creaks when I push it open, loud in the quiet.
I freeze, hand on the edge. Nothing answers.
I slip inside and pull it mostly closed behind me.
The room is small and cluttered with boxes. Old stock, half-rotted, lace yellowed with age. So much for snagging some new panties while I’m here. I laugh. Wouldn’t that just be so baller, to win the Rotter Hunt and walk out with a wardrobe of new undies?
Something whispers not fucking likely in my ear, but I chase it away. Must stay positive.
I wedge myself between two stacks of storeroom junk and sink down, back against the wall. My boots leave dark marks on the cardboard.
I picture the girl’s face when the strap clicked shut just now. Not terror. Something flatter. Resignation, for sure.
That’s when it lands fully. This isn’t about catching whoever they can. It’s about sorting.
I slow my breathing and listen again, mapping the sound, counting the gaps. Steps. Pauses. Answers I don’t understand yet.
There are rules here. Which means this place can be played.
Somewhere inside this mall, a winner earns a Favor no one can take back.
I don’t want mercy. I want that Favor, because losing isn’t an option I think I could survive.