The air wasn't just iron and sweat. It was ozone, burning plastic, and the static crackle of broken speakers.
"Thaaank you e-everyone f-for coming to the shooow!" the system blared, voice cracked and glitching, each word stretched and torn like metal scraping glass. "Th-this is the Tenth Annive-e-ersary! A-a-and now, the MAIN E-EVENT—tooo-day's spectacle is the R-RUNT! H-HUNT!"
The speakers shrieked with feedback, drowning the space in a teeth-grinding wail before snapping back into silence.
Chains clinked, swaying gently, every rattle followed by a scream. Each scream, amplified and distorted, became an anthem of agony.
The boy stood at the center, forced to watch.
Rusty hooks , jutting through shoulders, collarbones, thighs. Men, women, even children, strung up like sides of meat.
Friends. Family. Everyone he knew, bleeding on these hooks, tangled in neon wire.
A cruel contraption pressed against his face, pulling his features tight and twitching like a rat's.
The boy's knees locked. He wanted to run, to tear at the chains, to do something—anything.
But the smell, the noise, the way the blood dripped in rhythmic little beats onto the floor…it nailed him in place.
One woman—her throat already half-open—tried to form words through a gag slick with her own blood. Not pleading, not cursing. Just a wet, bubbling moan that sounded too much like laughter.
Her body jerked with each failed breath, and the crowd around her howled like it was entertainment.
Because that's exactly what it was.
"MAKE IT STOP!"
"GODS, IT HURTS!"
Not slaughter. No, slaughter would've been mercy.
This was theater—the Circus.
Bodies displayed in grotesque poses, mouths stuffed with glowing cloth, eyes wired wide under fluorescent glare. Flesh as spectacle. Suffering as the show.
The rich bastards above drank chrome-rimmed glasses of wine while the crowd below roared. Gore wasn't the byproduct—it was the art. Pain, the performance. Love itself—the grand finale.
And the victims screamed.
"PLEASE—PLEASE, NOT AGAIN!"
"TEAR ME DOWN, DON'T LEAVE ME HANGING!"
Their voices clashed like riffs on broken strings, a symphony of torment no amp could silence.
Then—
he saw it.
The gap in the curtains. The half-lit doorway. His way out.
His legs tore forward on pure instinct, bare feet slapping wet steel, sparks and blood flying in time with his ragged breaths. He didn't think, didn't hesitate—muscles fired automatically, carrying him faster than fear alone could push him.
And he hated his legs for it.
The same legs that locked when others screamed for help—when hands reached for him, when voices begged him to pull them free—now they moved without question. Not for them. Not for anyone. For himself.
But the voices followed.
"Don't leave us!"
"You said we'd make it out together!"
"You're one of us—you can't run!"
Chains rattled like snares behind him, every word dragging nails across his spine.
Then her voice cut through the chaos.
"P-Please—help, help me!"
He turned—just once—and saw her. The girl he swore to marry. Once soft, once kind—now mangled, bleeding, one eye gone, body ruined by endless repetition of violence.
But he didn't stop. He couldn't. His legs carried him like they belonged to someone else.
As he neared the door, her voice cut through the chaos one final time.
"Usumi… REMEMBER THIS. You let me die. This is your fault. You'll burn for this."
these words hit him hard. It wasn't the torture alone that broke him, not the twisted hooks or the burning lash of metal. It wasn't the cold, the darkness, or the weight of all those staring eyes. It was her voice.
He kept running. Couldn't stop. Wouldn't stop.
Only a boy.
Only thirteen years old.
A boy named Usumi.
"Hugh—hugh—hugh—" Usumi gasped, hyperventilating as he stumbled forward. Every breath burned, every step like knives stabbing into his side. His arm hung limp, broken, dragging uselessly at his shoulder.
"Gechhh… hhuh—hhuhhh—ughhh… hhuh—hhuhhh—ughhh—"
He wasn't running like a hero. He was flailing, collapsing, stumbling, screaming half-formed sounds like a wounded animal. Whimpers, yelps, incoherent noises tumbled out of him. A whimpering, cornered pup that could barely keep himself upright.
Little did he know his desperate attempt at escape was nothing more than a game to them.
He wasn't chained like the others. That wasn't an oversight. They hadn't forgotten him. No, they'd chosen him—specifically.
The runt. The scrap. The joke.
The Rat.
Because he was small. Because he was weak. Because his body hadn't even caught up to his age. Because he was the kind of boy who could be chased, cornered, and terrorized without ever truly fighting back.
Because fear clung to him like a second skin, and they knew it. Every flinch, every whimper, every stumble—priceless entertainment.
They called it the Runt's Hunt. A game for the rich. And he was perfect for it.
"Let the little rat run," they jeered from the velvet seats, wine spilling over chrome rims.
"He won't get far."
The audience roared. The victims screamed. The chains rattled in time with the chant:
"RUN, RUN, LITTLE RAT!"
"RUN, RUN, LITTLE RAT!"
The audience howled, voices dripping with laughter. To them, his terror was the punchline.
"Dance for us, little rat!"
"Fall! Fall! Let's hear that bone snap!"
"Faster, boy—run faster! Don't stop now!"
"Look at him! He thinks he can make it!"
"Ha! That one-armed pup's got spirit—let's see how long it lasts!"
He should've fallen. Should've tripped.
That was the point. That was the joke.
But he didn't.
A woman's sob twisted into hoarse begging. "Please—no more, no more!"
"It hurts—it hurts ithurtsithurts—!" A child wail cut off into silence.
Every scream, every laugh, every chant shoved him forward.
Step. Step. Step. Faster. Harder. A drumbeat pounding against the ground.
He ducked a swinging hook, slid under a falling grate, his skin tearing open against jagged steel.
Sparks painted him in neon red.
Still, he ran.
The crowd grew louder, voices overlapping like a broken chorus:
"RUN, RUN, LITTLE RAT!"
"HE THINKS HE CAN ESCAPE!"
"RUN, RUN, LITTLE RAT!"
"WE'LL DRAG HIM BACK IN CHAINS!"
But he didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Wouldn't stop. No matter how much his body screamed, how muscles ached and popped under pressure they weren't built to bear.
Pain and exhaustion blurred together, every step a battle, every heartbeat a hammer driving him forward. Still, through the haze of blood and light, his eyes caught it—
a maintenance hatch, crooked on a busted hinge. Not meant for people. Barely wide enough for a body.
His bloodied hands slammed against the metal, shoving, clawing, forcing it open with everything left in him.
"Ugh—hugh—" A pitiful wheeze left him, more animal than human. No words came out.
His throat tried, but the sound broke, cracked, useless.
Childlike stammers, meant to say open, open, but nothing formed.
He was too gone, too shattered to speak.
All he could do was do.
"Ugh—hhugh—hhhuuuh—"
His small hands clawed at the hatch, nails splitting, skin tearing on rusted metal.
It wouldn't budge. Not an inch.
He whimpered through clenched teeth, eyes blurring. Too weak. Too small. Not enough.
And then—her voice.
Not soft. Not loving. Sharp. Final.
"Usumi… REMEMBER THIS. You let me die. This is your fault."
The words ripped through him, hotter than fire, heavier than chains. He thrashed harder, desperation twisting into something new—not escape, but proof. Proof he wasn't useless. Proof he could open it. Do something.
CLANG—CRRRK!
The hatch snapped open, rust screaming as it gave way.
His eyes shot wide. For a moment he couldn't breathe, couldn't move.
He had been underestimated. The runt. The one they thought too small, too weak, too insignificant to matter. Yet here he was—free, clawing his way out, the one who got away.
Even as he dragged himself inside, her words clung to him, carving themselves into his ribs.
He didn't know it yet—but those words would stay forever.
Every time someone screamed for help.
Every time he saw another hand reaching for life.
Every time he thought he was too late.
He'd hear her again.
Usumi… You let me die.