Chapter 9
VI
I’ve watched men on screens talk about my father like he’s a cautionary tale. Like he’s the reason the town went to hell. Like he’s the easy answer people can swallow so they don’t have to choke on the real one.
“Your father failed Rothwell.”
“Your father made decisions.”
“Your father—”
They say it like he did it alone. Like one man can ruin a city without help.
My fingers curl into fists. Nails bite my palm. I welcome the sting. It keeps my head where it belongs.
A sound clicks outside the gate. Metal on metal. Deliberate. Not an accident.
The rage is ripe. It feels good. I need it. I move without thinking, lowering myself, shifting behind a broken display stand. The boutique’s shadows swallow me. I angle my head, listen again.
Another click. Then quiet. They’re communicating.
My pulse climbs again, fast and ugly. I hold still, counting again. One. Two. Three. Four. No footsteps. No breathing. No scuff of boots. That’s worse. I don’t get chased like the others. I get managed. That much I’m pretty sure of.
To hell with them.
I slide one hand toward the mannequin arm on the floor and lift it. It’s light, useless, plastic. I set it down and grab the metal base instead. Heavy enough to swing. Heavy enough to crack something if I get lucky.
My knee protests when I shift. I ignore it.
I don’t stop moving because I’m afraid. I keep moving because stopping is how they decide your future for you.
I didn’t enter the Hunt to prove anything to them.
I entered because the prize is a Favor no one can revoke.
A Favor that forces doors open. Forces mouths to talk.
Forces the truth into daylight. That Favor is the only clean currency left in Rothwell.
Money doesn’t matter here. Titles don’t matter. Rules are whatever the Rotters say they are.
But a Favor? A Favor binds. A Favor makes men answer hard questions.
I drag in a breath and press my forehead to the wall for half a second. My eyes close. The temptation to rest surges again, heavy and sweet. The wall is cold. It would be so easy to let my body slide down. To sit. To stop.
Wait.
My father’s voice again, but now it shifts. Not the calm version. Another memory, later, uglier. His jaw clenched. His eyes bloodshot. His hands shaking for the first time.
“Don’t trust them,” he says. Not a speech. Not a warning for drama. A flat statement, like he’s late to understanding it himself.
He doesn’t say who “them” is. He doesn’t have to.
A knock at the door. Hard. Official. Someone calling his name like they own it.
His hand on my shoulder again, tighter this time.
“Whatever happens,” he starts.
The memory cuts out before he finishes.
I open my eyes. My throat burns. I don’t get to cry in the Rot. I don’t get to break.
I push off the wall, grip tightening around the metal base I’m holding, and I slip toward the gate.
I lift it just enough to slide under, careful not to rattle it again.
My knee scrapes tile, sparking pain up my thigh and leaving a smear of blood behind.
I stand on the other side and pull the gate down with two fingers until it rests, quiet.
The corridor outside is empty. For now.
Emergency lights flicker along the floor, marking paths I don’t trust. The air is cooler here. It tastes like moldy carpet and dead plants.
I start walking. Not because it’s safe. Because running announces itself. Because injured runners look like gifts. I move slow and controlled, keeping to shadow, staying near walls, using storefronts as cover. I pause at each junction and listen before I commit.
The Hunt is still happening. If everyone had been caught, everyone but me, it’d be over. I’d be the winner.
C’mon, dumb bitches, show yourselves so we can get this over with.
Somewhere, a girl sobs. Somewhere, a voice murmurs low, and the sobbing stops.
I don’t look for them. I don’t help. I don’t apologize to myself for that.
That’s what the Rotter Hunt is. It’s what I chose.
I chose it because the alternative is waiting for answers that’ll never come.
I chose it because someone took something from me and expected me to just accept the story they handed down.
My knee throbs with every step, a hard reminder that I’m running out of clean chances. Good. Let it remind me.
I make another turn, deeper into the Rot, keeping my pace steady even as my body protests. Who knows how many girls are left. Who knows how close the end is. I only know what I came here for. And I’m not leaving without the Favor.
Not after what the waiting has already cost. This town fucking owes me.