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.

you’re going to act all crazy,

confines, bears the brunt of my rebellion. The

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

random object, hurling it

looks up from his magazine, annoyance etched on his

the limited space, frustration coiling within me like a caged beast.

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and start tearing through its pages.

glances up from his bed, his eyes narrowing in irritation. “Seriously, Alina? If

a casualty of my frustration, its pages torn and scattered like. confetti. The moonlight outside witnesses the clash, indifferent to the turmoil

within.

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

defiant look, tearing another page with a satisfying rip. “Mayber not, but it feels damn

“Feelings or not, you’re just making a mess for no reason. If you’re that upset,

forest.”

magazine with renewed vigor, the sound of paper tearing becoming a mantra of rebellion. The shack, with its confines

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

a torn

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

fueled by a mix of frustration and a desperate

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as if my rebellion is nothing more than a minor

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

the moonlit darkness, surfaces in my thoughts. The memory

consciousness. I remember the stealth, the quiet breaths, the desperate attempts to remain unseen. Survival, in those moments, boiled down to

fear and tension splashed

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

Each step is laden with the weight. of survival, the primal fear of becoming

indulgence, a tale of survival versus

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

lost, and

Victor, perched above it all in his sanctuary. The memories of struggle and death clash with the image of him indulging in the comforts of the shack. It’s a bitter

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Breakout

the forest,

sheltered existence.

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

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 its

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