Chapter 6
ARMEN
I don’t chase her. That would be a mistake. Besides, I don’t have to.
She cuts through another retail row, fast and clean, angling toward a corridor that used to lead to anchor stores.
Big spaces. Fewer hiding spots. That’s where the amateurs go to get caught.
They’re familiar with those places. They shopped there long ago.
They think they know the nooks and crannies.
Problem is, everyone else does too.
I let her think her new route is open.
Then I close it.
I shift my route and drop down a service stair that spits me out ahead of her path. The Rot gives up its shortcuts to people who know where to step. Of course, we have the advantage since we live here.
I move through a break in a wall that was never repaired, duck under a sagging beam, and tap once against a rusted support pole.
Rogue answers immediately. Not with sound but with absence. A gap opens where he would have been visible seconds ago.
Good job.
I slow my pace, letting the distance shrink just enough to tighten the air. Not enough to panic her. Enough to pressure her choices. From above, Sting shifts position, too loud about it, boots scraping like he wants credit for the move.
I ignore him.
Below, she hesitates. Just a beat.
That’s all it takes.
She changes direction again, correcting mid-stride, and I see it, annoyance flickering through her control. She doesn’t like being steered. She doesn’t like losing options.
That confirms it. She isn’t running blind. She’s running toward something. That much was clear before the Hunt even started.
Before this all started, the girls all sat in the sign-up room behind what used to be a tax-prep office, tucked between a nail salon and a cell phone repair shop.
No windows. One-way glass. A table bolted to the floor.
Paper contracts stacked neatly, pens chained down like the place pretends at civility.
The Rotters watch from the other side of the one-way mirror.
Always do.
Most of the women don’t look up. They read fast, hands shaking, signatures ugly and rushed. A few cry. A few try to negotiate. Some stare at their reflections in the glass without understanding what they’re really looking at.
She understood, though.
She kept glancing up at the mirror while the others signed. Not fear. Calculation. Like she knew exactly what that glass was for.
When it was her turn, she didn’t rush.
She signed the contract cleanly, slid the pen back into place, then reached into her pocket and pulled out a tube of lipstick. Red. Too deliberate to be nervous. She stepped closer to the glass and applied it carefully, watching herself—and us—through the reflection.
No smile. No theatrics. Just a quiet acknowledgment.
I remember thinking: Fucking hot.
I also remember Sting laughing under his breath and Rogue going still beside me. I remember wanting to wipe that red off her mouth with my thumb just to see if she’d bite me.
That’s when she was marked. Not officially. Not out loud. I looked at the Rotters gathered around us and without a word, they knew she was ours.
From where I watch her, I also track the other groups with a glance. The president-mask idiots are out of play, licking their wounds near the loading docks. The bone-mask pair fans out wrong, leaving their backs open. Another trio closes fast from the west wing, eager and sloppy.
Dumbasses.
I tap twice against the railing, sharp and deliberate.
Sting pauses, then backs off with a curse I don’t bother listening to. The west-wing group slows when Rogue’s shadow cuts across their path. Not a block. A suggestion to stay the fuck back.
The Hunt shifts.
She doesn’t know it yet, but the field just narrowed.
I move again, dropping down to her level now, boots quiet against the tile. The Rot absorbs sound when it wants to. I stay behind her, not close enough to touch, not far enough to lose the thread.
Her shoulders tense. She knows I’m nearer.
Good.
I don’t take her when I can. I let her pass another junction. Let her make another choice. Let her burn a little more energy. She needs to understand something before this ends. She isn’t winning, so far, by accident. She’s being allowed to last.
That distinction matters.
I signal once more—low, subtle. A ripple through the territory. Routes shift. Sightlines close. The other hunters adjust without question. Competition sharpens, quiet and controlled. Stakes rise.
If I take her now, someone may challenge it. Claim she crossed into their space. Demand proof she’s worth the trouble.
I don’t feel like explaining myself yet. So I wait.
She cuts into a narrower corridor, one that funnels into a service bay with no clean exits. I let my steps sound this time. Her spine stiffens. She doesn’t turn. She speeds up.
I close the distance. Not rushing. Not lunging. Just enough that she knows. Just enough that the choice ahead of her stops being theoretical.
For now, she keeps moving.
For now, I let her. I could end it here. Only I don’t. I need to know what kind of woman walks into the Rotter Hunt, already willing to lose everything just to win.