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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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.

to act all crazy, can you

my rampage. The shack, with its illusions and confines, bears the brunt of

becomes a backdrop to my destructive symphony. The shack,

random object, hurling it

his magazine, annoyance etched on his face.

the limited space, frustration coiling within me like a caged

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it from him and start tearing through its pages. The sound of paper ripping echoes through the

“Seriously, Alina? If you’re

frustration,

within.

my magazine will change anything?”

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

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

forest.”

through the magazine with renewed vigor, the sound of

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

scoff, tossing a torn page into the air.

back on his bed, unimpressed. “Reality or not, tearing my things

magazine with even more intensity, my actions fueled by a mix of frustration and a desperate need to

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Breakout

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

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

specter in the moonlit darkness, surfaces in my thoughts.

attempts to remain unseen. Survival, in those moments, boiled down to a primal instinct – hide or be

Strokes of fear and tension splashed across

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

with the weight. of survival, the primal fear

and indulgence, a tale of survival versus

a silent clash, becomes a silent graveyard. The memory carries the weight of

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

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

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Breakout

the forest, he feasted

sheltered existence.

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

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

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