Eight in the morning, and they're already calling us back.
A chime rings through the corridor, followed by a woman's voice instructing all participants to report to the main hall. Probably Lady Thorne. I drag myself out of bed, wash my face, and pull on the clothes laid out for us––a black shirt printed with my number, black pants, and a pair of boots. By the time I step outside, the others are already making their way toward the stairs.
Nobody looks particularly eager to be here. Some have dark circles beneath their eyes. Others walk with their hands shoved into their pockets, keeping their heads down as though they can make themselves invisible. A few whisper among themselves, but their conversations die whenever a staff member passes.
I fall into step beside Clay.
"Slept well?" he asks.
"Like a corpse," I say.
He glances at me.
"Too soon, huh?" He gives a short laugh, though it doesn't last. Neither of us says anything else.
The main hall is brighter than I remember. Rows of overhead lights illuminate the polished floor, and the enormous screen behind the podium displays the Red Hunt emblem: a minimalistic drawing of a pale goat skull against a blood-red circle, with its sweeping horns curling outward like blades. Sharp spikes jutted from the edges, while cracks and scratches marred the surface. Beneath it, the words THE HUNT BEGINS SOON scroll in clean, white lettering.
Lady Thorne stands at the center of the podium, dressed as impeccably as ever. Her hands are clasped in front of her, and her smile is wide enough to suggest we're attending a celebration rather than preparing for a game that could ruin our lives.
"Good morning, everyone!" Her voice carries across the hall.
"It's wonderful to see you all again. I trust you had a restful night?"
Nobody answers. But Lady Thorne doesn't seem bothered. "Excellent! Now, before we begin your assessments, there are a few important matters we need to discuss. Most importantly, the rules of the Red Hunt."
I glance around. The participants have gathered in loose rows, with the quadrangles standing together and the reserves scattered behind them. Some look attentive. Others appear to be counting the minutes until they can leave.
Then someone raises a hand.
"Lady Thorne," a young man calls, "what if we don't want to do this?"
Her smile remains in place, but something in her expression tightens.
"We thought about it deeply last night and decided not to sign the contract you gave us," he adds. "I have a young daughter back home. She's waiting for me to return, and I can't risk leaving her without a father."
"As we explained upon your arrival, withdrawal is no longer permitted once the preparation period begins," Lady Thorne says.
"So we're stuck here?" someone else asks.
"You are, if you wish to remain eligible for the prize." She tilts her head. "Of course, anyone who chooses to leave will forfeit their chance at winning the fortune. There will be no second opportunity to enter the Red Hunt."
I watch a group of four near the front exchange glances. One of them, a broad-shouldered man with a shaved head, whispers something to his teammates. A woman beside him shakes her head. Another participant looks as though he's about to be sick.
Finally, the broad-shouldered man steps forward.
"We're leaving, Miss Thorne."
Lady Thorne blinks. "I'm sorry?"
"Our whole team. We're withdrawing."
For the first time that morning, her smile falters.
One team becomes two. Then three. Twelve people stand apart from the rest of us, their faces set with varying degrees of fear. A few others look tempted to join them, but none move.
Lady Thorne lets out a slow sigh. She smooths the front of her jacket, then gives a small nod to the staff stationed along the walls.
"Very well," Lady Thorne says, turning to the guards. "Please escort them out."
The same men in white suits and white masks approach the withdrawing participants. They don't grab anyone or raise their voices. They simply position themselves beside the twelve and gesture toward a corridor at the far end of the hall. Some of the departing players look back at us. I can't tell whether they're relieved or terrified. Perhaps both.
As the doors close behind them, Lady Thorne turns back to the remaining participants.
"Does anyone else wish to withdraw?" Lady Thorne asks.
Her gaze travels across the room, giving everyone ample time to consider the question. When no one answers, she folds her hands neatly before her.
"I understand that the prospect of competing against other quadrangles may seem daunting. After all, there can only be one winning team, and every Hunter here has the same objective: to capture the Scapegoat before anyone else does." She pauses, allowing the words to settle. "Naturally, you may encounter teams whose interests conflict with your own. Competition is, by its very nature, unpredictable."
Her expression softens into something almost reassuring. "But I would encourage you not to mistake competition for hostility. You have all been brought here for the same opportunity, and there is no reason to assume that your fellow Hunters will behave otherwise. The rules are in place to ensure a fair contest, and you would be wise to focus on your objective rather than concern yourselves with possibilities that may never come to pass."
She lets her eyes move across the room once more.
"Should you choose to remain, you must be prepared to make difficult decisions. The Red Hunt rewards determination, sound judgment, and the ability to work together under pressure. Those who keep their composure are often the ones who succeed."
Her smile returns, polished and patient.
"Now, is there anyone else who wishes to withdraw?"
For a moment, no one moves. I glance around the hall, watching as the others seem to weigh their options. A few exchange uncertain looks, but no one speaks. When the silence stretches on, Lady Thorne gives a small nod and continues.
"For those of you who have chosen to stay, I must remind you that the departing teams are no longer eligible for the prize. Their places will not be held, and their decisions cannot be reversed."
My stomach tightens.
You could still leave. The thought arrives so quietly that it takes me a moment to recognize it as my own.
I could walk out with them. I could return to the Sinks, find whatever work I could, and figure out how to keep Aunt Evelyn in the hospital for another week. Then another. Then another, until the money ran out and I was back where I started. I could leave this place before it swallowed me whole.
My gaze drops to the floor. For a moment, I see rainwater rushing over broken pavement. I hear the frantic shouts of people trying to reach higher ground. I remember my father's hand around mine, his voice telling me to keep climbing.
Breathe, little bird.
I swallow. That was what he told me whenever I was frightened. Whenever I couldn't see a way out. He'd say it as though breathing were a simple thing, as though the world would become manageable if I could only remember how to do it. But he isn't here to tell me that anymore. And Aunt Evelyn is in a hospital bed, fighting an illness that doesn't care how much I love her or how desperately I need her to stay.
I can't afford to walk away. Not when one point five million credas could pay for her treatment. Not when it could buy her time––real time, not another handful of days scraped together through favors and unpaid bills.
I lift my head. I'm doing this for her. It's a comforting thought. Almost convincing. I hold on to it anyway.
"Now then!" Lady Thorne says brightly, clapping her hands once. "With that settled, let us move on."
A screen behind her changes, displaying four silhouettes arranged beneath the heading SUPPORT TEAM.
"Every quadrangle will be assigned a mentor or an assistant to guide you through your preparation. Our individual reserves will also receive their own support personnel."
A man approaches us from the side of the hall. He's young, probably in his mid-twenties, with neatly styled hair and a tailored suit that fits him without a wrinkle. There's something composed about him, from the way he walks to the expression he wears when he stops in front of us. He looks like the sort of person who thinks before speaking and rarely needs to repeat himself.
"Are you our mentor?" Clay asks.
He gives Clay a small nod. "Linus. I'll be your mentor for the week, so you'll be seeing quite a bit of me before the Hunt begins. Training, assessments, strategy, and anything else you need to understand before the Hunt begins."
"Anything else?" Gevan repeats. "Like explaining why we're being sent to an island none of us have seen?"
Linus considers him for a moment.
"Among other things."
Weaver lets out a quiet snort. "Well, at least he's honest."
"I haven't said anything particularly honest yet," Linus replies.
That earns a brief laugh from Clay. Even I find myself smiling, though it fades when Lady Thorne resumes speaking.
"The Red Hunt will officially begin soon. Until then, you will undergo a series of physical and mental assessments. These will help us determine the most suitable class for each participant."
The screen changes again. Four words appear in large lettering: LIFELINE. TACTICIAN. SCOUT. FIGHTER.
"Like what I said yesterday, a quadrangle consists of four hunters, each assigned a distinct class. Our individual reserves will undergo the same process and receive their own classifications."
I study the words.
A Lifeline. A Tactician. A Scout. A Fighter. The names sound simple enough, but I suspect the distinctions matter more than the game makers want us to realize.
"Your physical and mental results will determine your class," Lady Thorne continues. "The assessments will begin today, provided you sign the participation contract. Your individual number, on the other hand, has been randomly generated and will remain yours unless you're a reserve who's recruited to fill a vacant position."
She gestures toward the rows of participants.
"The quadrangles you were assigned to upon arrival are your teams. That will not change unless a member is disqualified or otherwise removed from the game. Should a position become vacant, the team may recruit a reserve of the corresponding class. A Scout, for instance, cannot replace a Lifeline."
I couldn't help but wrinkle my forehead. "So the classes are fixed, but the people aren't?"
"Precisely," Linus says.
"And the reserves are there to replace us?" a man in the crowd asks.
Lady Thorne's smile widens. "They're there to ensure that every quadrangle has the opportunity to remain complete."
That isn't quite an answer. I look at Clay. He's listening with his arms folded, his attention fixed on the screen.
"Your mentors will remain with you for the rest of the preparation period," Lady Thorne says. "They'll help you develop your strengths, address your weaknesses, and familiarize you with the equipment available to your class. Once the Hunt begins, however, their involvement will end. No further coaching or communication will be permitted."
"Not even through messages?" someone asks.
"Not even through messages."
The screen shifts to an image of a dark island surrounded by an expanse of water.
It looks vast from above, divided into distinct zones, each with its own landscape and atmosphere. One stretches into a lush forest of towering trees and dense undergrowth, while another resembles a snow-covered realm of pagodas, frozen lakes, and traditional oriental architecture. Beyond them, other territories unfold in starkly different environments, making Blackwake feel less like a single island and more like several worlds stitched together.
"This is the island of Blackwake," Lady Thorne points. "Once the preparation period ends, all hunters will be transported to Blackwake by hovercraft. The island has been equipped with everything necessary to accommodate the Red Hunt, including several systems designed to make the competition more challenging."
More challenging. A lovely way to describe whatever they're planning to do to us.
"Throughout the game, hovercrafts will deploy supply crates across the Redline known as Legacy Gifts. Each contains food, medicine, or other necessities intended to assist hunters during the competition."
An picture of a metal crate appears on the screen. As it touches the ground, red smoke bursts from beneath it, spreading around the base. Whatever is inside must be important enough to mark its arrival like that.
"The first quadrangle to secure a drop claims its contents. However, nothing prevents another quadrangle from attempting to steal it. The same applies to any supplies you may find or collect during the Hunt."
Weaver leans toward me.
"So we're allowed to steal from each other."
"Apparently," I whisper.
"Wonderful. Civilization at its finest."
I suppress a smile.
Lady Thorne continues as though she hasn't heard him.
"Blackwake also contains several Field Augmentation Stations, or F.A.S. These facilities allow hunters to upgrade their items according to their assigned class. Access is limited, and each station can only be activated for a set period. You will therefore need to consider when and how you use them."
The image changes to a metallic structure nestled among trees. Several weapon silhouettes appear beside it, each accompanied by a different set of specifications. The structure looks like some kind of futuristic station, its surface lined with glowing panels and intricate markings I can barely make sense of. I try to follow the information displayed on the screen, but the technical details blur together. Whatever the F.A.S. is, it looks far more complicated than a simple weapons station.
"You need to understand that these stations have been strategically placed throughout Blackwake because Blackwake is a vast island with unpredictable terrain, dangerous wildlife, and environmental conditions that can turn against you without warning." She paused, letting her gaze travel across the room.
"Blackwake will test more than your physical abilities," Miss Thorne added. "Your judgment, preparation, and ability to make decisions under pressure will matter just as much. We have provided the tools. What you do with them is up to you."
I studied her expression, searching for some indication of what she wasn't telling us. There was none. Everything was presented as though the Hunt were a challenge we could overcome with enough preparation and the right equipment. Maybe it was.
So far, the Red Hunt sounded dangerous enough to get us hurt. Between the unpredictable environment, the wildlife, and everything else we had yet to learn about Blackwake, there was no guarantee any of us would make it out. But I hadn't come this far to turn back. Aunt Evelyn needed treatment, and I couldn't afford to be picky about where the money came from. Money like that was never handed out for nothing.
I try to memorize what I can. Weapons. Supplies. Class restrictions. There's a great deal to learn in a very short time, and I have no intention of wasting the week pretending otherwise.
"Finally," Lady Thorne says, "we have the Incursion." The word flashes across the screen.
"It is a randomized environmental hazard that may occur at any point during the Hunt. The nature of each Incursion will vary, and hunters will be expected to respond accordingly. These events are designed to test your resilience, adaptability, and ability to make decisions under pressure."
A hand rises near the back.
"What kind of hazards?" a woman around her thirties asks.
Lady Thorne clasps her hands. "That depends on the Incursion."
"So you won't tell us?"
"We wouldn't want to spoil the surprise."
A few people exchange uneasy looks.
I stare at the image of Blackwake. It looks peaceful from this distance. Almost beautiful. Then again, the most dangerous places often do.
"Blackwake is a secluded island, carefully selected and modified by our team of game makers. We've worked extensively to ensure that its environment is suitable for the Red Hunt," says Lady Thorne. "It is enclosed within a containment dome known as the Redline. As the days pass, its boundaries will steadily shrink, forcing hunters into an increasingly smaller area. Anyone caught outside the Redline will be eliminated from the game."
So, the island will keep getting smaller. Whatever ground we manage to cover at the beginning won't necessarily be safe later. We'll have to keep moving, whether we want to or not.
I look at the island again, tracing its coastline with my eyes. A dome. An island. A shrinking boundary. Supply drops. Environmental hazards. It sounds complicated, but the objective itself seems straightforward enough. Find the scapegoat. Catch him. Win the money.
There has to be a catch, of course. There always is. But if the game makers have gone to the trouble of explaining everything in front of us, surely they'd tell us if there were something genuinely dangerous to worry about. Wouldn't they?
Clay raises his hand.
Lady Thorne points toward him. "Yes?"
"What happens if someone on our team gets disqualified? And why do we need reserves if our teams are supposed to stay together?"
A reasonable question. One I hadn't thought to ask, though I should have.
Lady Thorne laughs softly. "Oh, there are many reasons a hunter might become unavailable. Illness, for example. A disqualification. There are any number of possibilities."
"Does that mean our teammates would die?" Clay asks. The laughter around us stops.
Lady Thorne's expression barely changes. "My goodness. What a grim imagination you have."
"It's a fair question," I say. Clay gives me a look I can only describe as authoritative.
"Of course it is." Lady Thorne folds her hands over the podium. "But I see no reason to dwell on such possibilities when you haven't even begun the competition."
I don't like the way she avoids the question. Neither does Clay, judging by the expression on his face. Still, Lady Thorne moves on before anyone else can press her.
"Now, as for the primary objective of the Red Hunt, I believe it's time we addressed the question you've all been waiting to ask."
The screen behind her goes dark.
A moment later, a figure appears on the screen. He's dressed entirely in red, from his boots to the hood covering his head. A white goat mask conceals his face, its horns curving upward from the forehead.
There's something off about him, though I can't quite put my finger on it. The costume itself isn't particularly frightening. I've seen stranger things in the Sinks. But he stands so perfectly still that he barely seems human, more like a mannequin someone dressed up and forgot to bring to life.
"Your objective," Lady Thorne announces, "is to find and capture the scapegoat."
A new image appears, showing the same figure running through a forest.
"The scapegoat is not a participant. He will be moving throughout Blackwake during the competition, and your task is to locate him and bring him into custody. He will be wearing the red gear and white goat mask you've just seen. That's where the name Red Hunt comes from. And he will be in the middle of the Redline the entire time."
I study the figure.
So that's it. Find the man in red. How difficult could that be?
"Once the scapegoat has been captured, the game will conclude according to the established rules, and the winning hunters will be awarded their prize." Lady Thorne pauses, allowing the words to settle. "Of course, there will be only one winning quadrangle."
A murmur passes through the hall.
"And the winning quadrangle," she continues, "will receive a fortune of one point five million credas."
For a moment, nobody moves.
"Each?"
"That's insane."
People turn to one another, whispering, laughing, or simply staring at the podium as though they've misheard. One point five million credas.
I try to imagine the amount, but the number refuses to become anything meaningful. I've spent most of my life calculating how much food we can afford, how many days we can stretch a dwindling supply of money, and which bills can wait until the next paycheck. I've learned to measure wealth in small things: a full pantry, a roof that doesn't leak, medicine bought without having to choose between it and dinner.
One point five million is beyond any of that.
It's the kind of money people in the Sinks talk about as though it belongs to another world. Because it does.
I turn toward Clay. He hasn't said a word. His gaze remains fixed on the podium, his expression difficult to read.
"Clay?"
He looks at me.
"That's a lot of money," I whisper.
"Yeah."
"Think about what we could do with it."
His eyes flicker toward mine, and for a moment I think he's going to answer. Instead, he looks back at the screen.
I know that expression. I've seen it before, back when we were children and he would try to convince me that everything would somehow work out, even when neither of us had the faintest idea how. He looks like he's thinking too hard.
I glance toward the reserves.
Participant 002, the pretty girl with ginger hair, looks entirely unimpressed. She stands with her weight shifted to one side, her attention drifting elsewhere as though the promised fortune is hardly worth the trouble.
A few feet away, participant 003 remains in his corner.
The Asian guy in the black tank top isn't looking at the screen. His arms are folded loosely across his chest, his expression unreadable. He seems almost bored by the announcement, as if one point five million credas is no more interesting than the weather.
I wonder what it takes to look that unconcerned about a fortune.
Then I spot Blair and Reagan.
Blair has one hand resting lightly on her step-sister's shoulder. She's leaning toward the younger girl, speaking quietly, making sure Reagan isn't overwhelmed by the noise around them. Reagan listens without looking up, her fingers curled around the edge of Blair's sleeve. I look away before Blair catches me staring.
Not everyone here is after the money, I remind myself. Some might have their own reasons for joining. Others might be scared, or already regretting the decision.
Take 002, for instance. She's from the Spires, where people like her hardly need to worry about money. Yet she's here, too. And then there are those who might not have fully understood what they were signing up for until it was too late.
Lady Thorne raises her hands, and the room gradually settles.
"Now, should a member of your quadrangle be disqualified, the remaining hunters will have the opportunity to recruit a reserve of the corresponding class. All reserves will be stationed on the island during the Hunt, and their locations will be accessible through the tracking system."
A diagram appears on the screen, showing two wrists pressed together.
"Each hunter will have an implanted microchip linked to their assigned number. To recruit a reserve, a member of the quadrangle must tap their wrist against the reserve's wrist. If the vacant position is successfully filled, the reserve's number will change to the number associated with the quadrangle."
I look down at my own wrist.
The chip had been implanted before the game, presented as a routine part of our registration. I remember the staff member explaining the procedure while I sat in a chair with my arm extended. It had been quick, almost painless.
At the time, I'd been more concerned about the needle than the fact that I was allowing strangers to put something inside my body. Now, I can't stop looking at the place where it sits beneath my skin.
Gevan mutters something under his breath. I don't catch all of it, but I hear the words conveniently vague. Weaver nudges him.
"Careful. They might give you a special class for asking too many questions."
"Good. Maybe it'll be called Person Who Doesn't Die First."
"Doesn't exactly roll off the tongue."
"Neither does Fighter, but here we are."
I bite back a laugh. At least they're keeping themselves occupied.
Lady Thorne waits until the remaining questions have been answered before addressing us again. "Now, participants, we're approaching the final stage of registration. Those who wish to compete for the prize must sign the contract provided by our staff. Once your signature has been recorded, you'll be eligible to undergo today's assessments and receive your class assignment."
Staff members begin moving through the hall, distributing documents and pens. The contract then lands in my hands. I look down at the pages.
There are paragraphs of legal language, clauses concerning participation, disqualification, recruitment, and the conditions of the prize. I read each section carefully, my eyes moving from one line to the next.
I don't want to sign something I don't understand.
I've seen what happens when people in the Sinks agree to things without reading the fine print. Loans with interest rates that seem harmless until the debt doubles. Contracts that promise work but leave workers with nothing. Government assistance forms that somehow become reasons to deny assistance later.
Words can be traps, too.
I reach the end of the document and return to the beginning, searching for anything I might have missed.
My hand grows damp around the pen. You don't have to do this.
I know that. But I also know what happens if I don't. Aunt Evelyn's hospital room comes to mind. The pale walls. The steady beeping of machines. The way she sometimes looks at me without recognizing me, as though I'm a stranger who's wandered into her room by mistake.
Does she know it's me when she looks at me like that? Does she remember the nights she stayed up waiting for Papa to come home, or the way she used to scold me for coming back with mud on my clothes?
The thought catches in my throat.
I can't lose her, too.
There are days when she remembers everything. She asks about Dad, about the house, about the things we used to do together. Other days, her memories slip away before she can finish a sentence. The doctors have explained her condition as carefully as they can. They've laid out the treatment options, the costs, what might help and what might only buy us more time.
I've listened to every word. Asked every question I could think of.
And I still don't have enough money.
I tighten my grip on the pen.
Dad, what would you do?
The question comes before I can stop it.
But he's gone.
And the world doesn't stop just because I need more time to figure things out.
I look at the signature line.
One point five million credas could change everything. Even if we don't win, perhaps the training will teach me something useful. Maybe I'll find a way to survive the Hunt without putting myself in unnecessary danger.
Maybe.
I take a breath.
Then I sign.
The pen scratches against the paper, leaving my name beneath the final clause.
Elowen Bradshaw.
No. Elowen.
I blink at the thought, correcting myself. My name belongs to the person standing here, the one who has to make this decision. I press the pen down once more, making sure the signature is legible, then hand the contract to the staff member waiting beside me. There's no dramatic announcement. No sudden change in the room. Just a sheet of paper being collected and placed atop a growing stack. One signature among dozens.
Lady Thorne watches from the podium as the remaining participants make their decisions. Some sign immediately. Others hesitate, reread their contracts, or whisper to their teammates before committing. A few people leave their papers untouched until the very last moment.
When the staff have collected the final contracts, the screen behind Lady Thorne comes alive.
Numbers begin appearing one after another.
001.
002.
003.
The sequence continues, each number lighting up as the corresponding participant's registration is confirmed. I watch the list climb, my eyes following the numbers until it reaches 043.
Mine.
The number on the screen changes, and the sequence continues until all one hundred registrations have been processed.
"Wonderful!" Lady Thorne announces. "With that, our roster is officially confirmed. Congratulations to all one hundred participants. Your journey toward the Red Hunt begins today."
But I don't feel congratulated.
I feel as though I've just stepped onto a bridge without knowing whether the other side exists.
"Please proceed with your assigned mentors to the assessment rooms. You'll begin with the mental evaluation shortly, followed by the physical assessment. Your results will be delivered tomorrow morning."
Linus gestures for us to follow him.
"This way."
Weaver falls into step beside him almost immediately.
"So, Linus. How long have you been doing this?"
"Doing what?"
"Mentoring. Unless you've secretly been training to become a hunter yourself, in which case I have several more questions."
"Not long enough to be prepared for all of yours," Linus replies dryly.
Weaver grins. "I like him already."
Gevan walks on Linus's other side, adjusting his glasses. "How were the mentors selected for this program? Was it based on experience, qualifications, or personal connections?"
"A combination of qualifications and experience," Linus answers. "We were briefed on the rules and procedures before the participants arrived."
"So you've never mentored a team in the Red Hunt before?"
"No one has. This is the first Red Hunt."
"Right." Gevan glances at Weaver. "Just making sure we're all aware of the obvious."
"Hey, I'm saving my questions for the important stuff," Weaver says. "Like whether our mentor gets a bonus if we win."
Linus gives him a sidelong look. "I'd suggest focusing on the assessments first."
"That's not a no," Gevan says.
"It's not an answer, either."
Clay lets out a quiet laugh beside me.
I keep walking, watching Linus as he leads us down the corridor. He seems comfortable enough in his role, but none of us really knows what to expect. Not from him, not from the assessments, and certainly not from the Hunt itself.
"Are mentors given access to the same information as the game makers? Particularly regarding the Incursions and the Redline?" Clay asks.
"Mentors receive the information necessary to prepare their assigned teams," Linus answers.
He continues down the corridor without so much as a change in expression. Either he's used to questions like these, or he's exceptionally good at pretending they don't bother him.
Weaver glances at Gevan. "I think you're going to be a nightmare for him."
"I'm trying to establish the facts."
"Of course you are."
Their conversation fades into the background as I turn my attention to the corridor ahead.
The lights overhead stretch into a long white line. Every door looks the same, every passing staff member dressed in the same neat uniform. Yesterday, I barely had time to take any of it in. Today, I'm starting to notice how carefully everything has been arranged.
The facility. The assessments. The contracts we signed. Nothing here feels accidental. Even the island of Blackwake.
I keep picturing the island from the aerial projection, its different territories divided beneath the Redline. The forest, the frozen lands, the unfamiliar structures scattered across the landscape. From above, it looked almost beautiful. I doubt it will feel that way when we're actually there.
How dense are the trees? Will they provide enough cover? How difficult will it be to move between territories? Where will the Legacy Gifts appear? Will the red smoke make them easy to locate, or will it draw every hunter in the vicinity?
The questions keep coming.
I imagine four people running toward the same supply crate, each desperate to claim whatever's inside. I imagine a team stumbling into an Incursion without warning. I imagine the Redline closing in while everyone scrambles to find somewhere safe.
And I imagine the man in the goat mask, standing perfectly still on that screen.
I still don't know what to make of him.
Stop.
Thinking about every possible disaster won't prevent any of them from happening. But I can't help it. When I don't know what I'm walking into, my mind starts searching for patterns, weaknesses, anything that might give me an advantage.
It's what I've always done.
Back home, a missed detail could mean coming back from the woods empty-handed. A careless decision could cost us a meal we couldn't afford to replace. You learned to pay attention because no one was going to step in and save you from your own mistakes.
Blackwake will be worse. I know that much.
We stop outside a room with a plain white door. Linus then turns to face us.
"The mental assessment is straightforward. You'll be given a series of problems to solve within a fixed period. Read the instructions carefully and manage your time. Once you're finished, you'll proceed to the physical assessment."
"Any advice?" Weaver asks.
"Don't overthink it."
Gevan raises an eyebrow. "That's your advice for a group of people being sent into a game?"
"It's my advice for the test you're about to take."
Weaver lets out a sigh. "I miss when the biggest problem in my life was not having enough money for lunch."
"You still have that problem," Gevan points out.
"Thank you, Gevan. Very reassuring."
Clay laughs under his breath.
For a second, the sound eases something in my chest. It's ridiculous, really. We're standing outside a testing room, about to be evaluated for a game none of us has experienced before, and Weaver is complaining about lunch.
Linus then opens the door.
I start forward, then catch Clay watching me. Neither of us says anything at first. He gives me a small nod, the same quiet gesture he's used since we were kids. I know what he's trying to tell me. Whatever happens in there, he's still here.
I return the nod.
At least one thing hasn't changed. Then I step inside.
The room is dominated by a long table, with chairs arranged along either side. A stack of papers and a pencil sit at every station, and a digital timer is embedded in the tabletop. The questions are printed in neat rows, accompanied by diagrams, numerical sequences, and problems that look as though they've been designed to trip someone up.
I take my seat. A staff member explains the instructions, reminds us of the time limit, and tells us not to begin until the signal sounds.
I rest my hands on the table and wait.
When the test begins, I turn to the first page.
The opening questions are simple enough. Patterns, deductions, numerical sequences. I work through them one at a time, resisting the urge to rush. Some require more thought than others, but the logic behind them is familiar.
Find what's missing. Identify what's changed. Work out which answer fits the available information.
For once, the rules are clear. There's no hidden clause buried in a contract, no carefully worded answer that leaves more questions than it resolves. Each problem has a solution. I just have to find it.
I move through the pages, checking my answers before continuing. When something doesn't make sense, I return to the conditions and start again. There's no point forcing an answer simply because it's the first one that comes to mind.
The timer counts down, but I barely notice.
By the time I reach the final question, I've settled into a rhythm. I finish with several minutes to spare and use them to review the answers I wasn't entirely confident about.
When the staff announce that the assessment is over, I stack my papers neatly. I don't know how I've scored. There's no indication of whether I did well, and no one offers a reaction that might give anything away. Still, I feel better leaving the room than I did entering it.
At least I know I can think under pressure. Whether that's enough to keep me going on Blackwake is another question entirely.
We're given a short break before the next assessment. A staff member directs us to a waiting area just beyond the testing room, where chairs line the walls and water dispensers stand in the corners. I take a seat beside Clay and accept the cup he offers me.
"How do you think you did?" he asks.
"Fine, I think. You?"
"Not bad."
Weaver drops into the chair across from us, stretching his legs out in front of him. "If the next test involves solving more puzzles, I'm going to start charging them for my time."
"You haven't even seen the next test," Gevan says.
"Exactly. I want to be compensated for the uncertainty."
I take a sip of water, watching the staff move in and out of the adjoining rooms. Some carry clipboards. Others check the equipment through an open doorway. Beyond them, I catch glimpses of metal frames, padded obstacles, and racks of unfamiliar objects.
My fingers tighten around the paper cup. I'm not worried about running or climbing. Those are things I've done for years. It's the rest of it that bothers me. Yesterday's briefing made it clear that the game makers expect us to adapt to whatever Blackwake throws at us, and I have no idea what kind of stuff they'll put in our hands.
I finish my water and crush the empty cup between my palms. A few minutes later, a staff member calls our numbers. We rise from our seats and follow her through the adjoining doorway.
The difference between the two rooms is immediate.
Instead of rows of tables and pencils, the space is filled with equipment, obstacles, and designated stations. Staff members stand beside each one, ready to explain the tasks and record our results. We're tested on endurance, coordination, strength, and familiarity with weapons.
The first few stations are manageable. Running and climbing aren't new to me. Neither is pushing through exhaustion when there's still work to be done. Life in the Sinks has never offered much room for laziness. If I needed food, I had to find it. If something needed fixing, I learned to do it myself or went without.
Hunting taught me patience. Chores taught me endurance. Poverty taught me not to waste energy on things I couldn't change.
I finish the early tasks with aching legs but no real surprises.
But all of the sudden, weapons come out. Some I recognize from a distance. Others are unfamiliar enough that I have to watch the demonstrations carefully before attempting to use them. The staff explain the proper handling and ask us to demonstrate what we've learned.
It's harder than I expected. My grip feels wrong. My movements lack the confidence that comes with practice, and I have to concentrate on every adjustment. Knowing how to use a knife doesn't mean I know how to handle every weapon they put in front of me.
I make mistakes. Correct them. Try again. By the time I'm done, my arms are sore, my palms ache, and sweat has gathered at the back of my neck.
I hate being bad at something. Not because I expect myself to be good at everything, but because every weakness feels like something someone else could use against me.
You can't learn everything in a single afternoon, I remind myself. That doesn't mean you should stop trying.
When Linus approaches, I wipe my palms against my trousers.
"How do you think you performed?" he asks.
"Could've been better," I reply.
"Could've been worse." Linus looks at me.
"That's reassuring."
"It's meant to be," he says.
I study his expression, but I can't tell whether he's joking.
"Will we get to practice with the weapons again before the Hunt?" I ask him.
"You'll have opportunities to improve during the preparation period," Linus says. It's not quite the answer I want, but it's something.
I glance back at the equipment. There are too many things I don't know yet, too many skills I haven't had time to develop. I can't afford to pretend otherwise.
If the game makers have any sense, they'll assign me a class that makes use of what I can do rather than what I can't. Assuming, of course, that their idea of a suitable class has anything to do with keeping us alive.
By the time the assessments conclude, the sun has begun to sink beyond the facility's windows.
We're escorted to the banquet hall, where long tables stand beneath bright overhead lights. Plates of food have already been laid out, along with pitchers of water. Several staff members remain stationed near the walls, watching over the room without appearing to watch anyone in particular. Lady Thorne stands at the front.
"Congratulations on completing your first day of preparation. Your assessments are now complete, and your class assignments will be delivered tomorrow morning. Until then, I encourage you to enjoy your supper and get some rest. The coming days will require your full attention."
She offers us a practiced smile before stepping away.
That last part is probably the only advice today that everyone can agree on.
I take a seat with Clay, Weaver, and Gevan. For a while, we eat without saying much. The food is better than anything I've had in weeks, and I have to remind myself to slow down instead of finishing everything in front of me.
Old habits die hard. But I wonder how much of it will matter once we're on the island.
Weaver breaks the silence first.
"If I'm assigned Fighter, I'm demanding a refund."
"You don't get a refund for being bad at something," Gevan says.
"Then I'll demand compensation."
"For what?"
"Emotional damages."
Clay laughs, shaking his head.
I smile into my glass. It's a stupid conversation. Completely pointless, considering what lies ahead of us. But for a few minutes, we're just four people sharing a meal, trading remarks as though we're anywhere but here.
I let myself enjoy it.
When supper ends, we're sent back to our rooms. I'm exhausted enough that I expect to fall asleep the moment my head touches the pillow. Instead, I lie awake for a while, staring at the ceiling.
A week.
Seven days to prepare for something no one can properly explain to us. Seven days to learn what our classes mean, figure out what our teammates can do, and make the most of whatever training the game makers allow.
Seven days before the Redline begins closing in.
I turn onto my side.
You signed the contract, Elowen.
Eventually, sleep takes me.
***
When I wake the following morning, the room is still dim. The digital clock beside my bed reads 6:17.
Something lies on the floor near the door. An envelope.
I sit up, blinking away the last traces of sleep. For a second, I forget where I am. Then the unfamiliar walls come back into focus, along with yesterday's assessments and the reason I'm here in the first place.
I cross the room and pick it up. My participant number is printed neatly on the front. The Red Hunt emblem sits in the corner, stamped in dark red ink.
My stomach tightens. This must be the results Lady Thorne was talking about.
I turn the envelope over, half expecting some official seal or signature that might make this feel less like a sentence. There's nothing else. Just my number and the emblem.
I then tear it open.
Inside is a single sheet containing the results of yesterday's assessments. I smooth it against my palm and scan the page, searching for my number.
There.
043 — ELOWEN BRADSHAW:
My eyes move to the column below my name. For a moment, I forget to breathe. Because whatever they've decided I'm good at, it isn't what I expected.