Page 10 of Primal

“Yeah. Whatever.” Mia scoffs, thumb hooking the carabiner clipped to her belt—the only part of her whole haunted forest park ranger cosplay that looks like it’s actually seen dirt. “Half these chicas won’t make it past the first scream.”

“Including you?” I ask sweetly.

She taps the polished steel clip. “Oh, honey, I am the scream.”

Kristy lets out a low whistle, rubbing her arms. “Did someone just crank up the AC?”

I sip my neon punch, eyes still on Mia. “So, you’re here for the cardio or the trauma bonding?”

“Neither.” She smiles. “I’m here to win.”

Kristy leans toward me, stage-whispering behind her cup. “Okay but like … what do you win? Bragging rights? A trophy made of bones? An OnlyFans deal?”

“Wouldn’t be the weirdest prize I’ve taken home. Adiós, ladies.”

“Damn, that girl’s a badass, huh,” Kristy whispers as Mia saunters off. “Totally nailing the Lara Croft vibe.”

“More like future cult leader.”

“Okay, ‘Sidney.’” Kristy grins, nudging me. “Are you jealous someone’s giving you a run for the ‘final girl’ title?”

“Please. If anyone’s gonna beat me, it’s you or Lana.”

“Does that mean Lana’s ‘Dewey’?”

“I guess.”

She cackles as we drift toward the firepit, where a spread of charcuterie and spiked cider awaits.

I tap my fitness watch—the one Mom gave me after my ‘I’ll start jogging, probably’ phase lasted longer than six months. 7:06 pm. Fifty-four minutes until go time.

15% battery remaining.

Kristy eyes the warning. “Should’ve juiced it up.”

“And miss the thrill of living on the edge?” I tap it again, as if that’ll magically refill the battery. “This thing’s held on longer than most of my relationships.”

The blonde in thigh-high boots—Prey #7, according to her tag—is doing a spectacular impression of a baby deer on an ice rink. Her cider sloshes dangerously as she pivots on heels that could double as murder weapons. Up close, the whole sexy survivor aesthetic is falling apart: lace bodysuit snagged like it lost a fight with a rosebush, falsies doing the wave goodbye.

Kristy, our resident chaos medic, plucks a sweaty cube of cheddar from the charcuterie board and thrusts it at her. “Eat. Low blood sugar plus existential dread? Bad combo.”

“I’m fine,” Prey #7 lies, her voice cracking. “Just … do they really chase us? Like, full-sprint tackle?”

“Worse.” I take a slow sip, letting the word hang just long enough to see her pupils dilate. “They bite.”

Kristy elbows me.

Prey #7 blinks. Then—a startled giggle.

Kristy beams. “Hey, if you’re gonna wear stilts”—she nods at the thigh-highs—“own the wobble. Channel your inner baby giraffe.”

Prey #7—Amanda, she admits after two more ciders—mimes tipping over. “Just scream ‘timber’ and hope someone catches me?”

“Exactly.” I steal a slice of salami. “But honestly? The hunters want you to run. They’re all bark.”

Lie. The waiver mentioned ‘controlled aggression,’ whatever that means.

“Oh my God, it’s her,” Kristy hisses, elbowing me so hard I nearly choke on my olive pit.