The moment I stepped into the lounge it hit me like a wall of perfume and rot. The room is vast with large monitors each flickering with live feeds from the hunting reserve. Every angle is accounted for. Velvet drapes hang heavy over the walls, blood red and gold, muffling the sounds of the outside world. The lighting is low and theatrical, casting shadows across marble floors.
‘Expecting company?’ I manage, my throat dry and tight. Mr Lewis smiles, and the room begins to shift.
Guests begin to arrive - guests in masks – some animal, some grotesquely human. Waiters emerge clad in crimson waistcoats, each balancing silver trays that sparkle with champagne flutes. The masked crowd murmurs in low tones, glasses raised in gloved hands. Their laughter curls through the air like rot. It lingers, crawling under my skin, making the room feel too warm, too staged.
Mr Lewis was already halfway round greeting a cluster of VIPs with the ease of a man who’d sold this show a hundred times before. I swallow hard as a massive screen looms above. It’s split into four quadrants, each one spotlighting a name alongside a photograph – Stella, Paul, Emma...and me.
My face stares back at me from the top right, pale and wide-eyed, frozen in a moment I don’t recall. The expression is raw. Vulnerable. Like prey mid-realisation. I want to look away, but the image holds me, gripping some part of me that hasn’t caught up to the danger yet.
A masked attendant drifts past, silent and poised, offering a tray of billing slips – already inked with odds. This isn’t just a spectacle. It’s a blood sport. They aren’t just watching. They’re wagering.
I move carefully, refusing to meet my own gaze on the monitor above. But it’s there – wide-eyed, pale, caught mid-breath, and I spot Mr Lewis. He stands by the railing, perfectly composed, as if this twisted theatre is nothing more than opera. He’s deep in conversation with a figure donning a velvet cloak, horns and a bull mask gleaming under the soft light. One of boss’s hands rests on the polished edge of the railing, the other cradles a glass of amber liquid.
I’d followed him. Trusted him. Believed we were aligned. But now, watching his lips curl into a smile as masked strangers place bets on my fate, I can’t tell what’s real. Whether any of it was, I can only hope.
The monitors flicker – brief static, then clarity. The room seems to hold its breath. One feed zooms in on the long, serpentine drive, cutting through the estate’s dusk-stained grounds. A white Chrysler glides into frame, before vanishing into shadow beyond the car park.
Mr Lewis steps forward. ‘Ah,’ he says, the corners of his mouth lifting. ‘Our hunters have arrived.’
The guests turn towards the screen. Some clap softly, others raise their glasses. I stiffen as “the hunters” come back into view. Each one’s face obscured by the matte masks shaped like wolves, hawks and hounds. Predators, every one of them. Mr Lewis leans towards my ear. ‘They’re not just here to hunt. They’re here to be watched.’
The velvet edges of my mask bite into the side of my cheeks. I knew his smile had been thin, like glass stretched too far. ‘This wasn’t what we planned,’ I say, my words edged with suspicion. Mr Lewis turns, slowly and deliberately. ‘Plans evolve, Sal. You made your choice. This -’ he says, hand sweeping across the decadent hush of the room, ‘is what follows.’ The tension splits the air like a broken tile. Then, he leans in closer. ‘There are always exits, if one knows where to burrow,’ he says, allowing the last word to linger just long enough to raise the hairs on the back of my neck. His hands brush my shoulder as he leans in, this time, barely audible. ‘Not everyone plays by the same rules. But some – some still remember the warren.’ And just before he pulls away, his tone flicks sharp, almost impersonal. ‘If you want to stay, stay. But if you run, make sure it’s swift.’ The words barely settle in the air before the screen flickers with a surveillance feed threaded with static. The guests sip champagne and cheer, their masked faces lifting in delight as the screen flares – it’s brief, brutal, vivid. Stella bursts through the wrought iron gates, her skirt caught by the wind, legs pumping with frantic grace. She doesn’t look back. And the trees swallow her whole.Run, little bunny, run.
The room erupts in cheers and clinks of crystal, gilded celebration feeding on panic. My pulse spikes, it’s sharp and undeniable as I watch her vanish into the hunt’s dark mouth.
Mr Lewis doesn’t flinch at the knock. He had been expecting it, after all. I stay hidden in the corridor, seeing Charlie standing front and centre, the kind of man with a look on his face whose gaze could strip a secret from your bones. You don’t look him in the eye unless you’re ready to bleed.
His crew flanks him, silent as statues, and the estate’s guards raise their rifles – the black catching the dying light.
‘Evening,’ Charlie greets. ‘You called?’
Mr Lewis doesn’t invite them in, doesn’t as much as shift. ‘Let’s finish this. Once and for all,’ he replies, words landing like a verdict.
Charlie gives a subtle nod. No questions. No resistance.
‘My guards will escort you to the gates. I trust you’ve already let the prey loose,’ Mr Lewis asks, his tone clinical and dispassionate.
Charlie’s jaw tightens. ‘This isn’t what I signed up for,’ he replies like a warning.
That’s one thing he and I have in common.
‘The rules apply to both sides. No favourites. No shortcuts. Four prey, released thirty minutes before the hunters. The guards will walk you through the rest.’
‘Four?’
‘Oh yes, there are other contestants. You’ve got questions -’ he says softly, buttoning his cuff on his sleeve, ‘and you’ll have your answers soon. I’ll get changed,’ he adds, like it’s the most ordinary thing in the world. ‘And I’ll meet you at the gates.’
With subtle movement, Mr Lewis pulls the door shut, his eyes locking on me in the shadows. ‘If Sal had any chance to save her,’ he says, low and final, ‘he’d have left already...’
I glance out of the window and spot Charlie Thompson’s sleek, white Chrysler 300 resting in the parking bay. I rub my thumb against my forefinger – a habit, needing the grit of touch, something real to ground me. That car doesn’t belong in the real world. It’s too pristine. Too performative. Built for glossy spreads and vanity shoots. Not this world that stains your shoes.
Leaving themasia, I feel the Chrysler is still warm to the touch as I drag my fingers across the bonnet. Looking around, impatiently waiting for them to leave the gates, I grip my key and the scrape is imminent. The metal cries as I carve a long, ugly wound into its paintwork. The gash is deep but it’s not enough. Not yet.
I reach into my trouser pocket, my finger brushing against the lipstick. Twisting it open, I simultaneously pull out my cock. Then, I feel the creamy smear drag on its underside, refreshing the application from my earlier endeavour. It’s absurd, theatrical perhaps, but it makes my rage feel like a performance.
I lean in, pressing myself against the car’s door, pressing my cock heavily, leaving the imprint – a perfectly imperfect cock smeared just slightly.My mark. My promise. My warning.
I step back, popping my new black cock back into my trousers and watch it gleam against the paintwork while exhaling slowly. Now, the glossy white paint is marred, and although the gash is ugly, my cock will be felt.
