Chapter 14
VI
Finally, the lights completely die all at once.
No flicker. No warning.
Because of course.
Darkness slams down so hard it’s physical, like something dropped over my head. I stop short, breath snagging, hands lifting instinctively in front of me like they’ll find something solid to hold onto.
They don’t.
For one stupid, fragile second, a thought flickers through me.
Did I win?
The question lands wrong the moment it forms. Too easy. Too hopeful. But I cling to it anyway, heart hammering as I listen for something like an announcement, a signal, a sound that means it’s over.
Nothing comes.
No sirens. No horns. No collective noise rolling through the mall. Just silence, thick and intentional.
How are we supposed to know? When it’s all over?
The realization crawls up my spine, cold and unpleasant. I don’t know the rules for the end of the Hunt. I don’t know how the winner is declared, or when. Maybe that’s on purpose. Maybe they don’t end it until they’re done enjoying it.
Maybe the lights going out isn’t an ending at all. Maybe it’s just another tool. Another way to fuck with the runners.
My knee throbs, sharp and insistent, grounding me back in my body. Whatever this means, it doesn’t mean safety.
On the other hand…
Darkness cuts both ways. Don’t they know I can make this work for me, too?
I move again.
Slow at first, testing the space with my boots, keeping my weight low. My foot scuffs against something light and hollow. A crushed cup skitters away, the sound swallowed almost immediately.
I pause, listening hard.
Nothing. No footsteps. No breathing. No scrape of fabric. The kind of quiet that feels curated, shaped to make you doubt your own movements. Good for hiding.
Bad for everything else.
I edge forward and brush something with my shoulder.
Fabric whispers. I go still, pulse spiking, then ease my fingers out to feel it.
A curtain of some sort. Thick. Synthetic.
The kind used to hide seasonal displays or block off temporary events.
I slide along it, slow, mapping the edge until my hand bumps into a rounded counter—cracked laminate, sticky residue.
A kiosk. Food court overflow, maybe. Or some snake-oil beauty promotion that never got cleaned up.
I hide behind it, breathing through my nose, counting again. One. Two. Three.
I picture the barefoot girl from earlier. The way her shoulders sagged when the restraints clicked shut. The word Runts slides through my head again, ugly and heavy.
If I’m the last one—
The idea fizzles before it can finish. Too many unknowns. Too much quiet. This doesn’t feel like a victory lap.
A sound snaps me out of it.
Soft.
Close.
Breathing.
I turn—
And nearly collide with someone else, illuminated only by a sliver of light coming through the dark.
A girl gasps, hand flying to her mouth, the only thing I can see in the dark.
She seems small, shorter than I am, and smells of perspiration mixed with drugstore shampoo.
Another runner. Younger than me, I’m pretty sure.
We’re close enough I know her hair hangs loose when it brushes my arm.
She’s drowning in panic, sharp and sour.
“Shh,” I hiss, instinct overriding everything else.
She shakes frantically, then leans in, whispering, “Did you—did you hear them say it was over?”
“No,” I whisper back. “Did you?”
Her breath catches, calculating. I can sense her hope, bright and ugly and selfish. “If the lights are out, maybe—maybe we’re supposed to come out now. Maybe the winner—”
“No one told us that,” I say. “Stay quiet.”
From the sounds of her breath, she’s whipping her head around trying to hear something. Anything.
I don’t like it.
She shifts closer, too close, and whispers, “I think I heard someone back there. If they come this way—”
She raises her voice, just a fraction. Enough.
“Hey!” she calls, thin and desperate. “Over here—”
Is she crazy?
Holy shit. The bitch is setting me up.
I don’t think after that. I react. I drive my fist into her stomach, hard.
The air blasts out of her in a strangled sound as she folds, hands flying to her gut. She stumbles and I knock her aside as I shove past, bolting into the dark before she can recover.
My knee screams, but adrenaline drowns it out.
Behind me, she starts yelling. Not words. Just noise.
Fucking bitch.
I round a corner and duck behind what I think is another shuttered storefront, pressing myself flat against a wall. I clamp a hand over my mouth, chest heaving, every nerve screaming.
Her voice cuts off abruptly.
What follows isn’t silence.
It’s chaos.
Clothing ripping. Limbs smacking against tile. A dull, meaty sound like fists landing. Someone grunts. Someone else swears. The girl shrieks, high and raw, then the sound breaks into choking sobs.
Then a click.
Some sort of restraint snaps shut. Clean. Final.
The noise plateaus after that. Efficient. Controlled. But not quiet. Anything but quiet, the girl’s agony reveals. She gave it her best shot, I’ll give her that.
I slide down the wall, shaking, bile burning the back of my throat. My hands stink like sweat and blood and panic. I wipe them on my jeans without thinking.
That could’ve been me. That would’ve been me if that girl had her way. That will be me if I stop thinking.
This is what the Hunt does. It doesn’t just pit us against them. It turns us on each other.
I push myself back up, forcing my legs to hold. The darkness still presses close, but now I understand it better. The lights going out doesn’t mean the Hunt is over. It means they’ve decided to stop making it fair. If it ever was.
I move again, quieter now, slipping away from the echo of the girl’s capture, deeper into the mall’s dead veins. Whatever comes next, I won’t announce myself.
And I sure as hell won’t trust anyone who’s still running.