On the third try, the latch gives. I flex my fingers and open the door just wide enough to squeeze through. No alarm. No dog. No janitor on overtime. The rumor is that nobody’s allowed inside after ten, unless you’re on the Board or you know where the skeleton keys are buried. I’m not on the Board and I don’t have the keys, but I do know every inch of this corridor because I used this last year wisely and studied every blueprint about this place.
Even the records that aren’t available to the public. Cooper was a big help in that until he disappeared.
More secrets. More lies.
But that’s not why I’m here. I’m not here for secrets; I’m here for truth. And the truth is always written in the bloodstains the rich forget to bleach.
I shut the door behind me and breathe through my teeth, fighting the urge to cough. The air in here smells like rotted carpet and the kind of cleaner that makes your lungs sting for an hour. They run the A/C on “dungeon,” but all it does is recirculate the mold.
Security has a two-minute rotation between the main entrance and the north staircase. I know because I spent two hours yesterday timing their sweep, counting the steps, memorizing the rhythm of the boots on the tile. I wait for the pattern to hit a lull before moving. The cameras are the only real threat.They’re the old kind, with big white domes and lazy red eyes. They can’t see into the corners. I hug the walls, keeping my back to the brass nameplates and my feet on the runner, avoiding the scuffed floor that always seems to give you away.
I’m careful at the first intersection, where the Board’s portraits glare at you from above the trophy cabinets. The eyes in the paintings follow you. Not a metaphor, not a trick of the light. The paint on every face is bright around the pupils, and in the dark the effect is like being watched by a hundred carnivorous birds. I flip them the finger, then move on. I’m not their prey. Not tonight.
The main office is a short walk but I don’t go there. That’s bait for amateurs. What I want is in the basement: the Academy archive. Not the one available to students who want old newspaper clippings. No… the real deal. The old files. The ones that aren’t digital because the Board doesn’t trust computers any more than they trust each other.
I take the elevator. Less risk, more reward. The doors are slow to open, the kind of slow that says “last serviced in 1992.” I tap my foot, count down from ten, and step in. My own reflection glances at me from the smeared metal wall. I look feral, hair back in a bun but already escaping at the temples, mouth a flat line. I pull my sleeve over my fist and rub the sweat from my upper lip.
The elevator groans its way down to the sub-basement, lurches to a stop, and then the doors split open with a squeal. No one there. The hallway is half-lit, fluorescent tubes blinking at random, making the shadows look like they’re pulsing. It’s cold,not “wear a hoodie” cold but “see your breath” cold. My lungs seize up on the first inhale.
The archives are at the end of the hall, next to a door marked “Facilities: Authorized Only.” The door is locked but the hinges are so loose I could probably kick it open. Instead, I pull out my favorite toy: a tiny steel wedge, thin as a razor. I jam it above the latch, wiggle until I feel the catch slip, and the door pops open.
Inside, the archive is exactly what I expected and somehow worse. Rows of filing cabinets, at least thirty years out of date, all stamped with strip labels so faded they’re basically Braille. The air is full of that sick, sweet dust that sticks to your skin. I close the door behind me.
The first thing I do is check for cameras. None—perfect. The next thing is to search for motion sensors. Nothing, except maybe the ghost of asbestos and the low-grade cancer that comes with it. I take my time, running my fingertips over the file tabs. It’s not alphabetical. It’s not by year, or by class. It’s by event. Every cabinet is a different flavor of disaster: “Litigation: In-House,” “Sanctions: Board,” “Personnel: Censure.” My fingers itch at the thought of how many lives are ruined in these boxes.
The cabinet I want is labeled “Traditions and Law.” Which is such a Westpoint thing to have. I pull it open and the drawer is packed so tight it barely budges. I wrench at the handle until the friction gives and the files cough forward an inch. My hands are too cold to feel the first few folders. I rifle through them, scanning for anything related to disappearances.
Two rows in, I find what I need. Not a single file, but a cluster. “Night Hunt—1904.” “Night Hunt—1911.” “Night Hunt—1956.” On and on, every year with its own neat little folder, sometimes more than one. Some are so swollen with extra papers that the bands have snapped, letting the pages stick out in wild tufts.
I grab the most recent, “Night Hunt—2024,” and drag it free. The folder is heavy, the paper inside mottled with water damage at the edge. I flip through the first few sheets, expecting the usual bullshit about “legacy,” “integration,” “controlled bonding exercise.” Instead, the first page is a list. Names. Some of the female names have a little check mark next to them. Some have a cross. A few have “deceased” or “transferred” in red pen.
At the bottom, in neat block letters, is my sister’s name: “Greenwood, Casey.” Next to it: “Failed acquisition.”
My throat closes. Not from grief. Not even from rage. Just a clean, surgical numbness, like what happens right after you get stabbed but before the pain kicks in. I keep reading. Casey’s line has a date, which matches the date on her death certificate. “Witness: Grey, Rhett.” I stop breathing for a full five seconds. The blood roars in my ears. “Disposition: Accident. Review: Board only.”
I can’t look away. Each sheet is a different variant of the same game. The Night Hunt is not a rumor. It’s real, it’s annual, and every year they pick the best and brightest men to chase women, claim them and force them to become part of the corruption. The rest is just cleanup. If you survive, you graduate to the next level. If you don’t, they erase you and make it look like you were never here.
I turn the page and find a whole packet of instructions. Step-by-step process for the event, complete with location maps and a list of “special considerations”—meaning legal risks, medical liabilities, what to do if someone dies inside the kill zone. At the bottom of the sheet is a section labeled “Rituals,” which is so on-the-nose I almost laugh.
The next folder down is labeled “Ceremony: Attire.” Inside, it’s all torn pages and copied fragments, but the meaning is clear: the girls are dressed in white, like sacrificial brides. The guys wear whatever they want. There’s a note about “marking the Prey,” and another about “the Crown of Succession.” Someone’s written, in a girlish cursive, “Find out their favorite flowers.” My skin crawls. I take out my phone, click on the camera, and start snapping photos. Each flash feels like a tiny act of war.
I snap the pages, all of them, fast. There’s no time to savor the evidence. I need to get out before the security rounds shift again. But I can’t stop myself from grabbing the oldest folder, “Night Hunt—1904,” because I want to see how far the rot goes.
Turns out, it goes all the way. The first page is a hand-written roster, names written with a fountain pen and bled into the yellowed paper. The rules are different, but the outcome is the same: women hunted by men, the survivors forced into “matrimonial alignment,” the losers sent away with a payout or a burial. You get to live if you’re a ‘somebody’ otherwise it’s to the guillotine for you.
Not really, but may as well be true. Probably was in the 1900’s.
It’s so old it feels almost fake, until I see the last page. “Bloodlines must be preserved. Failure to reproduce is grounds for immediate replacement.” Someone underlined it twice.
I hear the footsteps before I see the light. Somewhere in the hallway, the night guard is finishing his circuit. I stuff the folders back into the drawer, jam my phone in my coat pocket, and hide behind a desk. The footsteps pause right outside, then shuffle on.
I breathe, shallow, and listen as the boots echo down the length of the corridor. I wait until I hear the elevator grind upward before I open the door and slip into the hallway. The fluorescent tubes buzz, then go dark. For a moment, I’m blind. I use my phone screen to light the path.
There’s a service stair at the end of the hall, marked “Maintenance.” I follow it up two flights, each step vibrating under my feet, and exit at the rear of the building. The door sticks, but I shoulder it hard and the outside air hits me like a slap. I take the stairs down to the loading dock, counting them as I go.
I’m almost clear when I hear a cough behind me before cursing. I duck behind a salt barrel, press myself flat, and wait.
The footsteps are closer. Sneakers, not boots. Whoever it is, they’re not security. I risk a peek and catch a glimpse of a student runner, the kind who delivers “urgent” paperwork for extra credit. He’s moving fast, eyes on his phone, hoodie pulledup to hide his face. He rings a bell and it buzzes him in and then he ducks inside and the door swings shut behind him.
