The Mating Run by Leeka

Chapter 39

Breakout

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Victor, sprawled on his beanbag, looks at me with a hint of curiosity.

“Lost your sense of humor, Alina?” he quips, his voice cutting through the stillness.

glance at him, a bitter taste lingering in my mouth. “Do you even know what happened out there? What we had to do to survive?”

Victor shrugs, a nonchalant gesture that stirs a simmering anger within me. “Survival, adaptation – it’s all part of the game, Alina. You should learn to embrace

it.”

I clench my fists, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “Embrace it? You act like it’s some kind of thrilling adventure. We’re out there fighting for our lives, and all you care about is your privilege.”

Victor leans forward, his smirk replaced by a cold glint in his eyes. “Privilege or not, it doesn’t change the fact that we’re all playing the same game. Some just play it smarter.”

The tension in the shack thickens, a palpable force that hangs in the air. The moonlight casts long shadows, accentuating the divide between us. I take a deep breath, my anger simmering beneath the surface.

  1. US.

“You think it’s a game, Victor? A game with rules that only favor you?”

Victor smiles, points at the corner of the shack where a camera is directed at

“Why don’t we ask the audience?”

I shake my head, a bitter smile playing on my lips.

“Fuck you.”

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Breakout

I can’t shake off the frustration that coils within me, a serpent ready to strike. The moonlight seeps through the windows, casting a cold glow on the scattered remnants of my earlier outburst.

I pace the limited space, the confined walls of the shack closing in on me. The what–ifs, the maybes – they echo in my mind like a haunting refrain. I glance at Victor, lounging on his bed with an air of indifference, and the anger resurfaces.

Without a word, I start tearing through the shack once more. Plates crash to the floor, and gadgets are thrown haphazardly. Victor grumbles, his irritation. evident, but he doesn’t move to stop me. The shack becomes a canvas for my rage, a chaotic display of frustration.

“Relax, Alina,” Victor mutters, his voice tinged with annoyance. “Someone’s going to find us soon, and this will all be over.”

I

His words only fuel my anger. I turn to him, my eyes burning with intensity. “Find us? This isn’t a game, Victor. We’re not waiting for rescue. We’re fighting for survival, and your privilege blinds you to that!”

Victor rolls his eyes, an exasperated sigh escaping his lips.

all crazy, can you at least

my frustration pushing me to continue my rampage. The shack, with its illusions and confines, bears the

The sound of pages turning becomes a backdrop to my destructive symphony. The shack, once a haven of illusions, now stands

hurling it against

up from his magazine, annoyance etched

within me like a caged

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Breakout

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Victor’s hands becomes a target for my wrath. Without a word, I snatch it from him and start tearing through its pages. The sound of paper ripping echoes through the

narrowing in irritation. “Seriously, Alina? If you’re going to

adrenaline of rebellion coursing through me. The magazine becomes a casualty of my frustration, its

within.

change anything?”

another page with a satisfying rip. “Mayber not, but it feels

“Feelings or not, you’re just making a mess for no

forest.”

only fans the flames of my anger. I tear through the magazine with renewed vigor, the sound of paper tearing becoming a mantra of rebellion. The shack, with its confines and illusions, bears

and resignation in his voice. “You’re being ridiculous, Alina. What’s tearing my magazine going

tossing a torn

leans back on his bed, unimpressed. “Reality or not, tearing my things won’t change

a challenge hanging between us. I tear through the magazine with even more intensity, my actions fueled by a mix of frustration and a

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Sat,

Breakout

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is nothing more than a minor inconvenience. “You’re really making

of the outside world, the unforgiving forest, linger like shadows in the corners of my mind.

the moonlit darkness, surfaces in my

of my consciousness. I remember the stealth, the quiet breaths, the desperate attempts to remain unseen. Survival, in those moments, boiled down to a primal instinct –

of fear and tension splashed across the

fleeting ally in the dance of survival. Yet, alliances are ephemeral in the harsh reality of the Mating Run. Trust, a fragile commodity, shattered like glass when the stakes became a matter of life and

sanctuary, transforms into a maze of uncertainty. Each step is laden with the weight. of survival, the primal fear of becoming prey. I recall the heartbeat, the rush of adrenaline, and the cruel necessity that compelled me to wield

tale of survival

a silent graveyard. The memory carries the weight of a life extinguished, a casualty in the name

the lives lost, and

his sanctuary. The memories of struggle and death clash with the image of him indulging in the comforts of the shack.

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I navigated the dangers of the forest, he feasted on the

sheltered existence.

simmers within me, a slow burn that threatens to erupt. The shack, with its illusions of safety, becomes a trigger for the resentment that festers. Ther contrast between the struggles outside and the comfort within intensifies the storm of emotions within

memory, a testament to the choices made in desperation. The

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