two -Ares- #2
The noise from my armor attracts one of the few contenders who wants another kill for himself, to ease his way to the grand prize. His biggest and final mistake.
I don’t wait for him to try. Just make an unpredictable turn and slash the sword throughout the darkness he’s hiding in. Worst decision of his life—hunting a hunter.
That makes only three left. But I don’t dwell on that. I just go straight up the stairs, a thousand scenarios running in my mind of what could happen if anyone found Brynn. “404,” I roar in my transmitter, feeling like the air is getting sucked out of my lungs. “What’s happening?”
“A guy entered the room a few moments ago, scoping out the place. Player forty.”
“Fucking shit,” I run faster, slamming doors and making as much noise as I can.
Maybe the bastard next to Brynn will hear me and decide to come after me instead of wasting his time in empty rooms. I run past one of the Valiants on my way to the attic, the fucker staring at me like I’ve gone mad.
Maybe I have, because the thought of not being able to protect her is unthinkable, unbearable.
My steps eat up the distance, the wooden floor thumping under my weight in a sinister rhythm.
My mind, at war with my body, like I’m not getting there fast enough.
Everything around me turns into a blur, like streetlights at night on the highway.
And right when I’m just a few rooms away from Brynn, 404’s voice echoes in my ears. “Boss…”
For a moment, my world screeches to a halt, and I feel the darkness within spreading, my eyes going fully dark, my clothes beginning to feel too tight against my skin.
“Boss…” 404 repeats, and I realize I hadn't answered him.
“Fucking say it already.” I groan, preparing for the worst.
“Someone’s on his trail. Right in front of you. Another player is hunting the one in the room where Brynn’s hiding.”
My pulse is spiking, the power of holding myself back thin as a thread. But in one of the brief moments of lucidity, I manage to hold myself back, stop in my tracks, and let the game take its course.
I follow close, careful so the man in front of me won’t see me. I suspect he's too focused on his competitor because I made enough noise earlier to raise hell. At this point, I don’t want him to know about me. I’ll just let the game take its course, hopefully as quickly as possible.
The man—player thirty-three—carries a massive hammer with a sharp edge, like a pointed bolt at one end. Despite his impressive weapon, he’s careful enough so that his target won’t hear him as he slips into the room and sneaks up behind him.
He gets to take a few steps before the man who’s already in the room where Brynn is hidden—player forty—gets a hint of his presence and turns to face him.
He instantly pulls out a knife and the two start fighting—or more like dancing around each other—they both try to stay at arm's length so their opponents weapons won’t reach them.
One of them won’t walk out of here alive, which means there will be only two players left in just a few moments. I need to find a way to get them together, because I can’t be the one who decides the winner between the two.
So for now, I remain at the door as a bystander, waiting for one of their moves to be the last.
Time doesn’t pass fast enough, and the bastards don’t die fast enough. The one with the hammer takes a swing but misses. Still, my money is on him to be the winner, but then, the one with the knife takes advantage and slashes at him.
He misses. The other man swings the hammer again, but player forty is fast enough to get out of the way, and with a quick spin, he kicks it out of his hand. It all happens in a split second, and as much as I want to see a good fight, I really need this to end.
Player thirty-three lunges at player forty, and they slam together, twisting across the floor as they battle for the weapon and control.
The fight goes on for almost a minute until one of them knocks the knife out of the other’s hand, the weapon skimming across the floor away from them.
Now the real fight begins, where men show what they’re really made of.
Punches and kicks fly, each one clinging to the last chance of survival, until player thirty-three shifts his weight, ending up on top of player forty with his hands, wrapped around his throat.
There’s not a significant difference in weight, but one has the advantage, and it takes under a minute before he chokes the man beneath him until he draws his last breath.
Just before that happens, my bracelet lights up, showing only two contenders left.
For a moment, none of it makes sense. I figure my men screwed up and declared him dead too soon.
That pisses me off instantly, but then the bracelet starts ringing, cutting through the confusion.
I know exactly what that means.
Player thirty-three is the winner.
Which means the other player is already dead.
I look up at the sound of footsteps echoing down the hall. A second later, the darkness parts, and one of the Valiants steps forward—carrying a severed head in his hand.
Senator James McAllister is the Valiant responsible for the player's death, making it a personal goal to get as many kills as he can.
Things are simple—he gets his thirst for blood satisfied, and I get whatever the fuck I want in return.
Total protection for my operations and basically a green light to do whatever I want in this fucking town.
This is how things work around here. Even though he holds one of the most influential political roles among the Valiants, he’s far from the only one who endorses this kind of game—or supports my activities.
Tonight, though, he seems displeased with the outcome. A scowl settles across his face, and he wastes no time speaking his mind.
He drops the head at my feet as the speakers blare the sound of victory.
“We should go congratulate the winner,” the senator says under his breath. “Though tonight’s game was… underwhelming.” Maybe things haven’t gone at all how he would’ve expected them to. But then again, life is never that easy, so deal the fuck with it.
“We should,” I snap, my tone letting him know this is not the right time to fuck with me, no matter how displeased he is with the game this year. There will always be a next year, and he has to be very careful to survive until then if he dares to cross me. Political or no political influence.
Senator McAllister enters the room where the winner stands. Brynn is there too, concealed behind the wall. So close I can feel it… but still so out of reach, it kills me inside.
My men rush in, ready to congratulate the winner and ensure player thirty-three receives his prize. We don’t keep records or videos of any of the games, so no one ever has evidence against us. But every Valiant is expected to attend the ceremony where the winner receives his title.
“What happened here?” McAllister asks, pointing to the hole in the floor and the wooden board beside it, tinged with fresh blood.
“The floor must’ve given out with some poor bastard.
All the more reason to head to level one for the celebration,” I say, pressing my foot against the wood as it creaks beneath me.
“This place is falling apart.” I don’t need to explain myself for people to follow, but the bastard McAllister keeps testing my patience.
I still need him to use his influence to appoint a police commissioner of my choosing next week—someone who won’t interfere with my shipments. Even the devil sometimes needs to make deals with politicians. So killing him right now would be to my disadvantage.
My guards hurry to get the hell out before they piss me off—or before the floor gives out beneath us. And player thirty-three follows close behind.
I signal McAllister to go with them while I hang back, pulling out my phone to text 404.
Me: Get me a body bag. Make sure the cameras are turned off on the east side, and pull a van right up to the back of the building.
404: Okay, boss.
I swallow hard, my mind stuck on Brynn and fuck! I need to find out if she’s okay.
I go downstairs where player thirty-three is presented to everyone as the grand winner. The Observers, along with the Vailants, take note of him, each one of them interested in the man’s past, as if his crimes equal achievements.
They don’t actually know I won’t let him live for more than a couple of months.
The man is an ex-marine, who has beaten and raped his own daughter, along with her seventeen-year-old friend.
Then, got them both to withdraw their charges, claiming they’d been at a party, slept with some guys, and fabricated the story after losing their virginity.
Call me in thirty seconds. I text 404 again, once everyone’s attention is on the winner.
404 doesn’t wait to deliver. My phone rings, and I answer, my expression shifting into practiced concern before I step out of the room.
McAllister has his eyes on me. The bastard senses something’s wrong, which is exactly why I signal one of my men. “Make sure no one leaves the room, and no one follows me.”
I disappear to the opposite side of the building, taking the stairs that lead to the attic—just in case anyone is keeping an eye on me. Then, staying in the camera's blind spots, I make my way upstairs.
I feel like I’m not getting to her fast enough, and the blame sits heavy in my chest—I should’ve ended it sooner.
But this is not about my ambitions or the game.
It’s about breaking the balance and all of its implications.
Things are so fragile on this earth that any mistake could easily lead to an apocalypse.
404 is waiting for me up in the room. His eyes are fixed on the wall like he’s too scared to open the door and see the truth behind it.
Is my little curse still alive?