The Mating Run by Leeka

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.

yada, yada. If you’re going to act all crazy, can

to continue my rampage. The shack, with its illusions and confines, bears the brunt of my rebellion. The moonlight outside watches

bed, flipping through his magazine with casual disinterest. The sound of pages turning becomes a backdrop to my destructive symphony. The shack, once a haven of illusions, now

grab a random object, hurling

from his magazine, annoyance etched on his face.

space, frustration coiling within me like a

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Without a word, I snatch it from him and start tearing through its pages. The sound

bed, his eyes narrowing in irritation. “Seriously, Alina? If you’re going to be this annoying, maybe

rebellion coursing through me. The magazine becomes a casualty of my frustration, its pages torn and scattered like. confetti. The

within.

think tearing my magazine will change anything?” Victor grumbles, his annoyance

him a defiant look, tearing another page with a satisfying rip. “Mayber

you’re just making a mess for no

forest.”

renewed vigor, the sound of paper tearing becoming a mantra

sighs, a mix of frustration and resignation in his voice. “You’re being ridiculous,

scoff, tossing a torn page into the

bed, unimpressed. “Reality or not, tearing my things won’t change a thing. If you’re that

even more intensity, my actions fueled by a mix of frustration and a desperate need to reclaim a sense of control. The moonlight outside casts elongated shadows on

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if my rebellion is nothing more than a minor inconvenience. “You’re

and frustration. The memories of the outside world, the unforgiving forest, linger like shadows in the corners of

surfaces in my

stealth, the quiet breaths, the desperate attempts to remain unseen. Survival, in those

Strokes of fear and tension

in the shack, the memory unfolds like a play in my mind. The Hider, elusive and cunning, was a 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

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

indulgence, a tale of survival versus comfort. While I grappled with the fear of being hunted, Victor reclined in his haven,

into the narrative. The forest, witness to a silent clash, becomes a silent graveyard. The memory carries the weight

on the choices made, the lives lost, and the desperation

memories of struggle and death clash with the image of him indulging in the comforts of the shack. It’s

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forest, he feasted on the spoils of

sheltered existence.

that threatens to erupt. The shack, with its illusions of safety, becomes a trigger for the resentment that

life lost is a scar on the landscape of my memory, a testament to the choices made in desperation. The forest, with its secrets and shadows, becomes a graveyard of hopes