The Mating Run by Leeka

Chapter 39

Breakout

88%

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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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

and confines, bears the brunt of my rebellion. The moonlight outside watches over the chaos, a silent

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 stands as a battleground for my

grab a random object, hurling it against the wall.

his magazine, annoyance etched on his face.

space, frustration coiling within me like a caged

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in 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 shack, a symphony of defiance.

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

casualty of my frustration, its

within.

my magazine will change

page with a

mess for no

forest.”

through the magazine with renewed vigor, the sound of

“You’re being ridiculous, Alina. What’s tearing my magazine

torn page into the air.

“Reality or not, tearing my things won’t change a thing.

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

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is nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

The memories of the outside world, the unforgiving forest, linger like shadows in the corners of my mind. I find myself trapped in a mental labyrinth, revisiting the

surfaces in my thoughts.

breaths, the desperate attempts to remain unseen. Survival, in those moments, boiled

fear and tension splashed

fleeting ally in the dance of survival. Yet,

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

to the privilege of this shack. It’s a juxtaposition of struggle and indulgence, a tale of survival versus comfort. While I grappled with the fear of being hunted, Victor reclined in his haven, shielded from

narrative. The forest, witness to a silent clash, becomes a silent graveyard. The memory carries the weight of a life extinguished, a casualty in the name of survival. It’s a

the lives lost, and the desperation that defines

of him indulging in the comforts of the shack. It’s a bitter realization that in this cruel game, not

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Breakout

forest, he feasted on

sheltered existence.

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

the brutality of survival. Each life lost is a scar on the landscape of my memory, a testament to the choices made in desperation. The forest, with

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