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.

going to act all crazy, can you at least be

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

through his magazine with casual disinterest. The sound of pages turning becomes a backdrop to

a random object, hurling it against

from his magazine, annoyance etched on his

within me like a caged beast. The

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

glances up from his bed, his eyes narrowing in irritation. “Seriously, Alina? If you’re going to be this annoying, maybe you should just leave.”

casualty of my frustration, its pages torn and

within.

magazine will change anything?” Victor grumbles,

look, tearing another page with a satisfying

a mess for no reason. If you’re that upset, go find your

forest.”

anger. I tear through the magazine with renewed vigor, the sound of paper tearing becoming a mantra of rebellion.

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

a torn page

bed, unimpressed. “Reality or not, tearing my things won’t change

between us. I tear through the magazine with even more intensity, my actions fueled by a mix of frustration and a desperate need to reclaim a sense of control. The moonlight

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amusement, as if my rebellion is nothing more than a minor

of resentment and frustration. The memories of the outside world, the unforgiving forest, linger like

darkness, surfaces in my thoughts. The memory is like a dark

my consciousness. I remember the stealth, the quiet breaths, the desperate attempts to remain unseen. Survival,

and tension splashed across the

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

laden with the weight. of survival, the primal fear of

of struggle and indulgence, a tale of survival versus comfort. While I

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

lives lost, and the

clash with the image of him indulging in the comforts of the shack. It’s a

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Breakout

dangers of the forest, he feasted on the spoils

sheltered existence.

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

to the brutality of survival. Each life lost is a scar on the landscape of my memory, a testament to the

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