Wang stood at the back of the dingy building, the scent of stale beer, piss, and cigarette ash creeping up his nostrils like a ghost from last night's regrets. The concrete wall behind him was cracked and stained yellow from years of piss and rain. He couldn't shake the unease gnawing at his gut—the kind that whispered you fked up louder with every passing second.
He'd agreed to meet the slick bastard. Why? Because he needed money. He needed something. Out here, survival wasn't just a goal—it was a fking religion.
Others trickled in, one by one. All dressed in the same grey jumpsuits, marked and scuffed from wear. Most had neck tattoos—letters, numbers, barcodes burned into skin. Prison IDs. Some were fresh. Others were already inked over with makeshift symbols, gang tags maybe. Every single one of them looked just as lost as he did.
Wang stayed alert. Cautious. But he also made sure not to stand out. If you were too twitchy, people smelled fear. Too cocky, they sniffed threat. The trick was to sit just right in the middle: quiet, but not prey.
Then came the growl of an engine.
A beat-up truck rolled up, its exhaust pipe coughing smoke like a dying lung. The truck screeched to a stop in front of them, brakes whining. A moment later, the door swung open with a metallic creak.
The driver stepped out.
Big dude. Burly. Black leather jacket over a stained tank top. Thick beard. A neck tattoo shaped like a coiled snake baring its fangs. Wang's stomach dropped a little.
This guy looked like the final boss of a back-alley barfight.
"Alright, listen up," the man barked, his voice low and mean like gravel in a blender. "Name's Snake. I'm your driver today. You're here 'cause you wanna play the game, right?"
Murmurs and awkward nods. No one said shit out loud.
"Good. Hop in. We ain't got all fucking day."
Some hesitated. Wang among them.
But Snake didn't wait. He grabbed Wang by the arm—strong grip, no room to argue—and shoved him toward the truck. No time for second thoughts. One after another, the prisoners were herded in like livestock.
The truck smelled like death and gasoline. Wang grabbed onto one of the rusted bars and held on for dear life as it started moving—fast. The metal vibrated beneath them. Every bump in the road felt like a punch to the spine.
They drove out of Darwin and into the void.
The landscape blurred past—red dirt, dead grass, carcasses of broken cars rusting under the sun. Rocks jutted out of the earth like broken teeth. The farther they went, the more the world looked like it had been forgotten by God and paved over by Hell.
The wind stung Wang's face. The sun burned through the gaps in the metal roof. He could taste dust and oil in his mouth.
What the fk is this game?
***
Two hours later, the truck jerked to a halt in a clearing deep in the bushland. Trees gnarled and tall surrounded them like twisted sentinels. Wang's legs wobbled as he stumbled out, blinking against the harsh daylight.
A second group was already waiting.
Men in brown coats sat on buggies, rifles resting lazily in their arms. They looked like soldiers, but something was off—no patches, no rank insignia, just cold eyes and stiff posture. Mercs. Or worse.
Among them stood a man in a sharp black butler suit, somehow pristine despite the dust. Polished shoes. Gloves. Hair slicked back like he belonged at a private estate, not in the middle of the goddamn Australian outback.
He stepped forward and clapped his hands once.
"Welcome, ladies and gets!" His British accent was thick, theatrical. "I'm delighted to have you all here."
Nobody replied.
"You are all here for a very special evening," he said, like announcing a dinner party. "Tonight's game is called: The Hunter and the Prey!"
Wang's eyes narrowed.
Hunter?... Prey?
"The rules are simple," the butler continued. "You will be given a four-hour head start. You may run wherever you wish in the forest. At 6 PM sharp, the hunters will be released to find and shoot you."
A ripple of tension passed through the crowd.
The butler held up a gloved hand. "Ah, but do not fret. The guns are perfectly safe. You will not be harmed... physically. Once you're hit, you're considered disqualified. The objective is to survive—until 6 AM tomorrow morning. Return to this very spot, and if you've survived... you collect your reward."
The crowd stared in silence.
"Clear?" he asked, smiling like a man announcing dessert.
A few nods. No one asked questions. They all knew something was off. But nobody wanted to test the guy in a butler suit backed by mercs with rifles.
Wang's pulse thudded.
Running? Hunted?
This isn't a game.
The butler checked his pocket watch. "It's 1:55. You may begin running..."
He paused, lips curled into a grin.
"...Now."
The clearing exploded into chaos. Prisoners scattered in every direction—scrambling over roots, pushing through branches, darting into trees like rats from a burning shed.
Wang didn't wait. He took off running—no plan, no path—just the instinct to move. Fast.
He didn't know where he was going.
But he sure as hell knew what was behind him.
And it was coming.
Q: Where will you hide?