ELOWEN
I wake up to white. Not the soft ivory of morning light filtering through a window, but something harsher. Blanched. Almost silver. It fills everything––the walls, ceiling, floor, even the air––until I couldn't tell where the room end and I begin.
I sit up too quickly. Pain flashed behind my eyes. For several seconds, I stay still, waiting for my thoughts to catch up. But they didn't. Where am I?
I look around. There was a narrow bed beneath me, a silver table beside it, and a door without a handle. No windows. No clock. And no way out. I was about to leave my bed when I heard a distinct beep. I froze.
Beep.
The sound comes from my neck.
My fingers find a hard band strapped tightly around my throat. A collar. Smooth, black, with a blinking red light in the middle.
Beep.
A tracker?
I pull at it. Nothing happened. I try again, harder, until the edge bit into my fingers.
"Please don't remove the collar, Miss Bradshaw."
I spun around. There's nobody there. The voice had come from somewhere above me.
"Please proceed outside," it says.
The door clicks. I stare at it for a few seconds. Five. Ten. Fifteen maybe. Every instinct told me not to move. Then the door opened by itself. I am reluctant, but I step through as if my feet have their own minds.
Walking through the hallway, I couldn't help but remember my worn out room. The Sinks never looked this beautiful, not even when the sun was up. Rusted rooftops crowded together beneath a gray canvass. Narrow alleys twisted between patched walls and unclean pavements. Beyond the houses stretched forests that fed anyone brave––or desperate––enough to enter them. I had been both.
In the Sinks, you learn pretty quickly that surviving another day was enough of an achievement. I was still a child when I first learned to use a knife. Other kids were afraid of them. I couldn't afford to be. I needed it to catch rabbits, gut fish from the streams, cut branches for firewood, and keep scavengers away from whatever food we managed to bring home. Some days, my hands would ache from the work. Other days, I'd come back with nothing and have to figure out how to make the little we had last until morning. I never dreamed of being someone who knew how to fight. I just wanted to eat.
As I continue walking, I realize how enormous the corridor outside is. Doors lined the walls, but they weren't arranged in any order. Some were close together. Others were separated by long stretches of white wall. One opens. Then another. And then majority of the doors open.
People begin emerging from their rooms, squinting against the harsh lights. A woman rubs her arms as if trying to warm herself. Somewhere down the hall, a man shouts at the ceiling, demanding answers from whoever might be listening. Someone else demands to know where the exits are.
I then glance at my own door. The number is etched into its surface, impossible to miss. 043. Then I look at the doors lining the corridor. Numbers everywhere. Every room marked, every person accounted for. And around every neck is the same metal collar.
I swallow hard, suddenly all too aware of the thing hugging around my throat.
I also didn't recognize anyone. Not that I remember where I even came before I end up here. But before I could even process what was really going on, a voice crackled through hidden speakers.
"All participants, please proceed to the central podium."
Nobody moved. White-uniformed enforcers appear at both ends of the corridor all of a sudden, as if we were being escorted out of the hallway. That was enough for us to follow.
The podium stands in the center of a vast hall, hundreds of lights hanging overhead and bathing the room in a brightness that makes it feel less like a building and more like a stage. At its center, a woman waits for us. She wears a dark coat trimmed with silver and carries herself as though she owns every inch of the room. Her lips are painted a striking scarlet, and her black hair is twisted into a neat bun.
She smiles as though she were greeting guests at a celebration rather than a room full of strangers wearing collars.
"Welcome, hunters," she says.
Silence answered her.
She lets it linger for a moment, her eyes slowly moving across the crowd. "My name is Thorne Alba, but you can all call me Lady Thorne," she says. "I'm one of the gamemakers appointed to oversee this year's Hunt."
She pauses. "And I imagine you have quite a few questions."
A man near the front raised his hand.
"This year's what?" he says.
Another man raises his hand, pointing irritably at the collar around his neck. "Why are we stuck with these stupid things?"
A few participants touch their collars, and murmurs of agreement spread through the room. Lady Thorne glances around, seemingly amused by the sudden concern. "Ah, yes. The collars. I was wondering how long it would take someone to ask."
"Then answer the question," the man snaps.
"There's no need to be alarmed," Lady Thorne says. "Every collar is a tracking device designed to monitor your location throughout the preparation period and the Red Hunt. It allows our staff to keep track of every participant and ensure that nobody gets lost or wanders into restricted areas."
A woman cautiously runs her fingers along the band around her neck. "So it's a tracker?"
"Precisely," Thorne replies. "It doesn't contain explosives, poison, or anything of the sort. You are not going to be harmed by wearing it. The collars are designed to be safe, and our medical staff have verified that they pose no danger to their wearers under normal conditions."
The tension in the room eases. Several participants stop tugging at their collars, while others exchange relieved glances.
"And can we take them off?" someone asks.
"Not yourselves," Thorne answers pleasantly. "They're secured for the duration of the event and can only be removed by authorized personnel. Attempting to tamper with one is unnecessary and may damage the device."
I run my thumb along the edge of my own collar. It's still uncomfortable, but at least I know what it does. A tracker. Nothing more, according to Thorne. A murmur then ripples through the crowd. Lady Thorne waited until it faded.
"You're probably wondering why you've been brought here," she says.
"What exactly is this Red Hunt?" someone calls out.
"An excellent question." Thorne smiles. "The Red Hunt is the first competition of its kind, a social game designed to test your instincts, judgment, adaptability, and ability to work under pressure. You have been selected to participate in an event that will potentially change your lives for the better."
She lets the silence build before continuing. She then lifts a hand toward the enforcers.
"Each of you has been selected to participate in this new government-sanctioned competition."
"And what exactly are we supposed to do?" another participant asks.
"Simple, really. All you have to do is to find the scapegoat in a specific time frame."
A few people exchanged confused looks.
"That's it?" someone calls.
"For the most part."
A man near the front raised his voice. "And what happens if we don't find one?"
Lady Thorne's expression remains pleasant.
"Then I suppose," she says, "you'll have to become better hunters."
The enforcers begin moving through the crowd, distributing contracts to each participant. When one reaches me, I accept the papers without a word. The first page bears a title printed in crimson ink.
THE RED HUNT.
Beneath it lie pages of rules, conditions, and signature lines. I barely make it halfway down the first page before someone speaks.
"Wait." The man's voice echoes across the room. "Are we allowed to leave?"
Lady Thorne turns toward him. "You were told that participation was voluntary before you came here."
"That wasn't my question."
A few people murmur in agreement, their attention shifting toward the exchange.
The man straightens. "Can we leave? Like, right now?"
Lady Thorne's smile remains perfectly intact. "No."
The room falls silent.
"No?" someone repeats incredulously.
"You accepted the invitation," she explains. "And by entering this facility, you agreed to remain until the conclusion of the preparation period and the submission of your contracts."
"So we're prisoners?" someone shouts from the back.
"No," Lady Thorne replies calmly. "You're participants."
"Sounds like the same thing to me," the same person says.
A few nervous laughs ripple through the crowd, quickly fading when Lady Thorne makes no effort to join in.
"Perhaps you should have read the invitation more carefully."
My fingers tighten around the contract.
I lower my gaze to the pages in my hands, searching for something I might have overlooked. The fine print swims under the harsh lights, the letters running together until I have to blink and start again. But the longer I read, the harder it becomes to ignore what's right in front of me.
The invitation. I remember it now. I remember that heavy envelope. The pristine paper. The crimson seal pressed firmly into the flap, far too refined for anything that belonged in the Sinks.
Three days before my arrival, I'd found it waiting outside our door. My name was written across the front in elegant lettering, the kind I'd only ever seen on advertisements plastered across the walls of the Spires. Inside was a promise of something better. A fortune. A place among the privileged. The chance to leave the Sinks behind and step into a life I'd only ever watched from a distance.
I'd almost thrown it away.
Almost.
Instead, I accepted. I boarded the transport to the Spires, leaving behind everything familiar for a promise printed on expensive paper. The journey itself was a blur, and thoughts I couldn't quite bring myself to finish.
Looking back, I can't remember what finally convinced me to go. Only that I did.
Lady Thorne raises her voice. "For the next three weeks, you will be provided with food, shelter, medical assistance, and private sleeping quarters. You will have time to familiarize yourselves with your fellow citizens."
Whispers spread through the room.
"Why?"
"What are they offering?"
"How much?"
Lady Thorne waits until the noise settles.
"The Red Hunt was created by the government as a means of encouraging participation in society. We all know there's a divide between the Spires and the Sinks. So the triumvirate agreed. Successful players may attract sponsorships, establish public profiles, and secure financial opportunities." She pauses. "And, of course, the winning team receives a fortune."
Someone laughs nervously. "How much?"
"One million five hundred thousand credas," Lady Thorne announces confidently.
The room falls silent.
"Winning," Thorne adds, "may also make you eligible for permanent residency in the Spires."
I can see the shift in the room. The anxiety hasn't disappeared, but something else has begun to take its place. People who were ready to walk away are listening now, weighing what they stand to lose against what they might gain. Because in the Sinks, opportunities like this don't come twice. The walls between us and the Spires aren't just concrete and steel; they're built on money, privilege, and generations of people deciding who deserves a better life. Most of us grow up knowing our place before we're old enough to question it. A chance at residency in the Spires is the kind of offer people in my district dream about in private and dismiss as impossible in public. For some, it might be the first real chance they've ever had to escape.
A woman near the front raises her hand. "Can we contact our families? I have a kid back home."
Lady Thorne smiles. "Unfortunately, for now, no. You cannot."
The answer comes so quickly that the woman blinks.
"Why not?" she asks.
"Because outside communication may interfere with your performance."
"My performance?" the woman repeats. The woman lowers her hand, clearly unsatisfied.
I look down at the contract. My eyes move over the fine print until I find the clause: participants are prohibited from contacting family members or outside associates during the preparation period and throughout the Hunt.
I let out a heavy breath. I can't help thinking about Aunt Evelyn. The thought comes so suddenly that I almost lose my place on the page. Her hospital room. The sharp smell of antiseptic. The soft hum of the machines beside her bed. Her hand trembling beneath mine. I swallow and force myself to look away.
Don't think about it. Not here.
Lady Thorne turns toward the screen behind her.
"Now, let's discuss your assignments."
The screen flickers to life. Numbers appear in neat rows.
"Participants 021 through 024 will form one team known as a Quadrangle. Participants 025 through 028 will form another. The pattern will continue until everyone form different Quadrangles."
People immediately begin checking their numbers. I look at mine.
"Participants 001 through 020," Lady Thorne continues, "will serve as reserves."
A man raises his hand. "Reserves?"
"Correct," she says with a smile.
"So we don't have teams?" asks a participant wearing the number 019.
"Not initially."
"And what are we supposed to do?"
Lady Thorne chuckles. "Find one."
The man frowns. "Meaning?"
"Reserves may be recruited by any active team during the hunting period."
A few people exchange uneasy looks.
"So we're basically on our own," someone mutters.
"Until someone decides they need you," Lady Thorne replies.
I'm not sure if that's supposed to sound reassuring. It doesn't.
The crowd begins breaking apart as everyone searches for their assigned teammates. Bodies shift around me, shoulders brush against mine, and voices overlap until the room becomes a blur of numbers and names. I step aside, trying to get out of the way. I was about to be lost in the middle of the crowd when I hear someone say my name.
"Elowen?"
I stop.
For a second, I don't turn around. I know that voice. Slowly, I look over my shoulder. A guy with wavy golden-brown hair stands several feet away, staring at me like he's just seen a ghost. His shirt bears the number 041.
"Clay?"
His eyes widen. Then he laughs.
"No way."
He walks toward me, shaking his head as though he can't quite believe what he's seeing.
"What on earth are you doing here?" I stare at him. Of all the people in this room, he's the last person I expect to see.
Clay stops in front of me.
"You look different."
"So do you."
He grins. "That's probably a good thing."
I almost laugh. For the first time since waking up in that room, the knot in my chest loosens. Clay is familiar, unlike everyone else here. Not completely, not anymore. But enough.
Years ago, Clay used to wander over to my house when we were kids almost every afternoon with a stick he'd proudly declared was a sword.
"Elowen!" he'd shout from outside the fence. "Come on! We're going exploring!"
I'd barely look up. I was usually crouched in the tall grass with my hunting knife in one hand, watching a rabbit pick its way through the weeds.
"I'm busy."
"You're always busy."
"Go home, Clay."
"I'll wait."
And he did. He'd drop himself onto the nearest rock, swinging his wooden sword between his knees while I stayed perfectly still.
Other children spent their afternoons chasing each other through the streets. I chased dinner. Clay never seemed to understand why I couldn't simply stop. But he never complained for long, either. He'd just sit there and wait.
Sometimes, an hour passed. Sometimes two. Eventually, I'd return with dirt on my knees, grass stuck to my clothes, and a rabbit hanging from my hand. Clay would look at it. Then at me.
"You got one?"
I'd nod.
He'd sigh dramatically. "You could've just played with me."
I would give him the same apologetic smile every time.
"Sorry."
He'd roll his eyes.
"Maybe tomorrow?"
"Maybe," I said.
I used to think there would always be another day, another afternoon to waste, another chance to make up for the times I left him waiting while I went hunting. But we grew up. That aside, standing in that white room, surrounded by strangers wearing collars, I suddenly wondered if we'd ever been given as many tomorrows as I thought.
Clay studies my face. "You okay?"
I realize I've been staring at him.
"Yeah."
"You don't look okay," he says.
"I just didn't expect to see you."
"Neither did I." Clay chuckles.
His gaze drops to the number printed on my shirt. "043."
I glance at his. "041."
A smile spreads across his face. "Guess we're teammates."
I look around at the hundreds of strangers surrounding us. "Looks like it."
Clay's smile fades a little. "Then I guess we're going to have to look after each other."
I don't answer immediately. His words should comfort me. Instead, they frighten me. Until now, I've only had to worry about myself. I've spent years learning how to survive without depending on anyone, and the thought of having people beside me feels almost as dangerous as being alone. Because if Clay and two other people stay with me, whatever happens next won't just happen to me. It'll happen to them, too.
Before either of us can say anything else, a blond man approaches, his shoulder-length hair falling loosely around his face. He looks older than us, though not by much. Four years, maybe six at most. His dark green eyes move between Clay and me, as if trying to figure out whether we're worth approaching.
"Looks like we've found another teammate," Clay says.
The newcomer grins and offers his hand. "Hey, guys. I'm Weaver."
I shake it. His shirt reads 044.
"Elowen."
"Ah, 043." He glances between Clay and me. "Great. We have the numbers, we have the team, and now all we need is a plan that doesn't get us in trouble or else we might get burned to ashes."
Clay gives him a look. "We've been teammates for about ten seconds."
"Exactly. I'm getting a head start."
Before I can respond, another guy joins us. He has olive skin, black wavy hair, and a pair of glasses that make him look more like someone I'd expect to find buried in textbooks than standing in a room full of hunters. Sixteen, maybe. Around Clay and my age. He doesn't look like the sort of person who'd willingly sign up for something like the Red Hunt, but then again, neither do most of us.
"Are you guys 041, 043, and 044?" he asks.
"That's us," Clay replies.
The guy nods. "I'm Gevan. Gevan Ruiz."
Clay shakes his hand. "My name's Clayton Merit. This is Elowen and Weaver."
Gevan looks nervous. I can't blame him. If I'm being honest, I'm not entirely sure what to make of any of this, either.
Clay and Weaver begin talking, and Gevan soon joins them. They exchange questions about the rules, the three-week preparation period, and what little we know about the Hunt. I listen without contributing much, letting their conversation fade into the background as I study the people around us.
Across the hall, a dark-skinned girl wearing number 021 catches me staring. Her thick dreadlocks frame a face twisted into open disdain. She looks at me as though I've personally offended her simply by existing.
What's your problem? I say softly.
I hold her gaze for another moment before deciding she isn't worth the trouble. I have enough to worry about without picking a fight with someone whose name I don't even know.
The man standing beside her is harder to ignore. Tattoos creep across his gaunt face, drawing attention to his sunken cheeks and sharp features. He's so thin that I find myself wondering when he last ate a proper meal. His black hair is a mess, shaved close at the sides except for a narrow strip at the back that trails down his neck into a rat tail. Neither of them looks particularly approachable.
I turn my attention to the reserves standing farther back from the active teams. My eyes settle on numbers 011 and 012. The younger girl stands close to the older one, who wears glasses and has her brown hair woven into a fishtail braid. The older girl keeps an arm around the younger one's shoulders, holding her close.
The girl wearing 011 looks about twelve. Maybe younger. She hasn't said a word, and her gaze remains fixed on the floor.
What is a child doing here? I ask to myself.
The question comes before I can stop it. I can't imagine what would drive someone so young to end up in a place like this. Then again, I don't know her circumstances.
I look away. At the far end of the hall, a strikingly pretty girl sits applying her makeup. Her ginger hair falls in loose waves past her shoulders, framed by a fringe of wolf bangs. She works with her makeup as if she's preparing for an ordinary afternoon out.
Then I recognize her. I've seen her on screens back in the Sinks, appearing in advertisements and entertainment broadcasts. Her face is familiar enough that I've probably passed it countless times without giving it much thought. Apparently, fame doesn't exempt anyone from wearing a collar. I wonder what someone from the Spires is doing here. Is she another participant, or is there something else behind her presence? Maybe she's here to promote the Red Hunt, lend her name to the spectacle, and convince everyone watching that this is something worth celebrating.
It wouldn't surprise me. People like her can make almost anything look appealing on a screen. I wonder if she knows what this looks like from our side.
I let the thought go and scan the hall again.
Number 061 stands a short distance away, a muscular man in his late thirties with a bandana wrapped around his head. Nearby, number 050 stands quietly among his teammates. He's an old man, and nobody seems particularly interested in speaking to him.
I watch him for a second before looking away.
I then spot number 001.
He's bald, with tattoos covering his arms and extending up his neck. His build suggests someone accustomed to physical confrontation. While others fidget, whisper, or glance around each other, he stands with his arms at his sides, calmly surveying the room. He doesn't look nervous. He doesn't even look confused.
What do you know that the rest of us don't? I ask.
I can't decide whether I'd rather have someone like him on my side or as far away from me as possible.
My gaze drifts farther across the hall until it settles on number 003, standing alone in the far corner with his hands buried in the pockets of his black pants. He wears a black tank top, black earrings in both ears, and a distinct slit through his left eyebrow. He looks around my age. Unlike 001, he doesn't seem to be studying anyone. His eyes are lowered to the floor, his expression almost bored, as though the commotion around him has nothing to do with him.
I try to make sense of him from a distance, but out of nowhere he raises his head. And our eyes meet.
I look away almost immediately, annoyed with myself for doing it so quickly. There's no reason to feel caught. I was only looking.
Still, something about his face unsettles me. Why does he seem familiar?
I glance back, trying to find whatever detail might have caught my attention before. The shape of his face, perhaps. His eyes. Nothing comes to me.
I search my memory, reaching for a place or a moment that might explain the strange feeling settling beneath my ribs.
Come on. Think.
Nothing.
I turn my attention back to the people around me, but the question lingers at the edge of my thoughts. I was about to remember something when...
"Elowen."
...Clay's voice pulls me back.
I turn toward him just as Lady Thorne returns to the podium.
"Our staff will prepare your first meal shortly," she announces.
People begin shifting toward the exits, their conversations growing louder as the initial tension gives way to curiosity.
"Use this time wisely. Get to know your teams. Three weeks from now, four people will walk away from this place with their lives financially changed forever."
Her tone makes it sound almost cheerful, as though she's announcing the winners of a lottery rather than sending a hundred people into an unknown competition.
"You will have until then to consider your participation. When the preparation period ends, your signed contracts will be collected."
She smiles at us.
"For now, enjoy yourselves. Eat. Rest. Speak to your fellow citizens."
The lights dim slightly, and the crowd begins to scatter.
My fingers closed around the contract. I looked at the red title again.
THE RED HUNT.
The collar around my neck beeped.
Once. Then again.
I lowered my eyes to the contract. The signature line waited beneath the rules. My hand hovered over it. I hated that I was considering it. But to think there's a big fortune waiting. Enough for medicine. Enough for me and my aunt. Enough to move her somewhere safe. More than enough to buy time. For the first time, I stopped thinking about whether the game was worth playing. I thought about whether losing was something I could afford.
***
Hours had passed since supper, and despite having rested, I still couldn't fall asleep. Every time I closed my eyes, my thoughts drifted home.
I was little again, waking to the sound of rain hammering against the roof before dawn. Each drop was hard enough to make the walls tremble. Water seeped through cracks in the ceiling, dripping onto the floor and pooling in the corners. Outside, the wind howled through the streets, bending the trees until their branches seemed to twist away from the storm. Then my bedroom door flew open.
"Elowen!" My father stood there, soaked from head to toe. His face was pale, and there was something in his expression I'd never seen before.
"Get up, little bird. We have to go."
I sat up, still half asleep. "Where?"
"The house isn't going to hold."
I didn't understand what he meant until something crashed downstairs. The sound made me jump. My father rushed toward me and lifted me from the bed. I remember the way his hands felt around me. Strong. He carried me against his chest as he hurried through the house.
Outside, the world had disappeared beneath brown water. The Sinks were never prepared for storms like that. We lived in one of the many regions surrounding the Spires, a vast stretch of neighborhoods, industrial districts, villages, and forgotten communities that wrapped around the wealthy city like a ring. The Spires stood behind a massive wall, separated from everything below it. Beyond those walls were towering buildings, private gardens, luxury apartments, and streets that never seemed to flood. Celebrities lived there. Businessmen. Politicians. Artists. People whose names appeared on screens. People who could afford to live above everyone else.
The rest of us stayed below.
My father stepped into the flood, and I clung tightly to him. "Hold tight," he said.
I buried my face against his shoulder.
The water reached his waist, then his chest. He kept moving, fighting against the current as it pushed violently against his legs. I could hear his breathing growing heavier.
"Papa?"
"I've got you."
Another wave struck us. His foot slipped. For one terrifying second, we disappeared beneath the water.
I swallowed a mouthful of filthy rainwater and screamed. My father's arms tightened around me. Then his hand caught something beneath the surface.
He grabbed a rope with everything he had. The current pulled at us, but he refused to let go. We swung against the water, and through the rain I saw an old platform nearby, half submerged beneath the flood. The water was rising too quickly.
My father looked at me.
"Papa!"
"I've got you," he said again, but his voice sounded different this time.
He wrapped the rope around me.
I stared at him. "What are you doing?"
"Listen to me." His voice was calm. "You're going up first."
"No," I protested.
"Elowen, listen to me."
I shook my head violently. "I don't want to."
"I know." He held my face between his hands. Rainwater ran down his cheeks, mixing with his tears.
"You're scared."
I was crying now. "I can't."
He looked directly into my eyes.
"Breathe, little bird."
I stopped. Those words. Breathe, little bird. I'd heard them my entire life. Whenever thunder frightened me. Whenever I fell. Whenever hunger made my stomach hurt. Whenever something felt too big for me to handle.
Breathe, little bird.
"Come on," he whispered. "Just breathe."
I inhaled. The air shook inside my lungs.
"Again."
I did.
"That's it."
He secured the rope around me and looked toward the higher platform.
"Now climb," he said.
I looked up. The rope disappeared into the rain, and my hands were already trembling.
"I don't want to leave you."
He smiled.
"You're not leaving me. You're getting somewhere safe."
I didn't believe him.
But I climbed.
My hands slipped several times. My knees scraped against the wall, and the rain made everything difficult to hold. I kept going because my father kept telling me to.
When I finally reached the higher platform, I turned around. He was still below. He wrapped the rope around his hand and looked up at me.
"See?"
I was crying too hard to answer.
"You did it." He placed one foot against the platform.
He was about to climb. But the structure broke. The sound was enormous. The platform collapsed beneath him.
"Papa!"
His hand slipped. The rope snapped loose. The current took him.
I remember screaming his name. I remember reaching for him even though I knew I couldn't reach far enough. I remember the last glimpse of his face before the flood swallowed him. Then there was only water.
A week later, I was called to the morgue in the Sinks. Aunt Evelyn was there, crying. She held my hand the entire way. She was my father's older sister, and she hadn't said much since they found him. Neither had I.
The official warned us before we entered. I don't remember everything about that room. I remember the cold. I remember the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. I remember Aunt Evelyn squeezing my hand so tightly that it hurt. And I remember seeing what was left of my father.
The water had taken so much from him that I couldn't recognize the person I'd spent my entire childhood running toward. I shook my head.
"That isn't him."
Aunt Evelyn began crying beside me.
The Sinks official stood quietly near the table. "We need confirmation."
I stared at him. "How?"
He pointed toward the clothing. A shirt. The same shirt my father had been wearing the last time I'd seen him.
Aunt Evelyn looked at it for several seconds before covering her mouth.
"It's him," she whispered.
That was enough.
The Triumvirate required every deceased citizen in the Sinks to undergo biometric and dental scans before being officially removed from the registry. There were forms. Numbers. Reports. Signatures.
My father's name was reduced to information.
Cause of death. Date recovered. Identity confirmed.
Case closed. One hundred of them, all perished all because of the typhoon.
I hated those words.
As if the government had finished dealing with him simply because his body had been identified. There was nothing in that report about the way he used to sing while repairing the roof, or how he called me little bird, or how he always gave me the larger piece of bread when he thought I wasn't looking. Nothing about the way he held me during storms.
None of that mattered to the system. According to the report, my father was a dead citizen. That was all.
Afterward, Aunt Evelyn took me in. We survived the only way we knew how: one day at a time. Sometimes we had enough food for dinner and breakfast. Sometimes we didn't. Evelyn worked whenever her health allowed it, and I learned to help wherever I could.
Years passed. But grief doesn't always leave. Sometimes it simply becomes quieter.
"Elowen?"
I blink.
The white room returns.
Clay is looking at me. I stare at him for a second before realizing that Weaver and Gevan are watching me too.
"Huh?"
Weaver leans back in his chair. "Are you with us just now, or did you take a little vacation somewhere?"
Clay laughs softly.
"She wasn't listening."
"I was listening."
"You definitely weren't," Gevan says, awkwardly.
Clay shakes his head, smiling. "We're introducing ourselves."
"I know who you are."
"Yeah, I know." He taps my shoulder lightly. "But you should probably get to know Weaver and Gevan too."
I look between them. Right. We're supposed to be a team.
I straighten in my seat.
"I'm Elowen Bradshaw. I live in the Sinks."
Weaver waits for a moment, as if expecting me to say more. When I don't, he raises an eyebrow.
"That's it?"
I glance down at the table. I've never been good at talking about myself, especially when there's nothing about my life worth making conversation out of.
"I don't have parents anymore," I say quietly.
The humor disappears from his face.
"My mother dies in an accident when I'm very young. My father dies during the last major typhoon that hits the Sinks. There are a hundred victims." I pause. "He's one of them."
The table goes quiet.
Weaver looks down. Gevan's expression softens. Clay gently taps my shoulder again, almost as if reminding me that I don't have to say anything else.
Gevan speaks first.
"I'm sorry."
I give him a small smile. "It's okay."
It isn't. But saying that is easier. I look at them.
"What about you two? Where are you from?"
I've been thinking about it since we meet. If we're going to spend the next few weeks together, I want to know who I'm standing beside.
Weaver smiles.
"Well, prepare yourself. My life story is significantly more interesting than theirs."
Clay groans. "Ugh. Here we go."
Weaver ignores him. "I'm from the Sinks. I'm a student, mostly. I work part-time as a stand-up comedian in small bars."
I raise an eyebrow. "You're a comedian?"
"An excellent one."
"Debatable," Clay says.
Weaver points at him. "My audience says otherwise."
"You have an audience?" I say.
"Three people last Thursday."
I laugh before I can stop myself. Weaver grins.
"See? Natural talent," he says.
I shake my head.
He really is a comedic guy.
"I use the money to help pay for school," he continues. "Sometimes I make jokes about the Triumvirate."
My smile fades slightly.
"That's brave," I commend.
"Or stupid," Gevan interjects.
"Probably both," Clay says.
Weaver shrugs. "Depends who's listening."
Then he looks at my hair.
"I'm calling you Red."
I frown.
"Why?"
He points toward the red streak running through my otherwise jet-black hair.
"Because of that."
"That's terrible."
"Too late. It's official."
I laugh quietly.
"Fine."
"See? Red likes it."
I roll my eyes.
For a moment, the conversation feels almost normal.
Weaver making fun of the Triumvirate is really brave. They are three rulers voted to oversee both the Spires and the Sinks, and their powers are passed down through generations. The system has existed for so long that most people can't remember what comes before it. And over the years, it had become rotten.
Everyone knew it. Corruption wasn't even hidden anymore. Politicians bought loyalty with money, food, promises, and temporary relief. People in the Sinks were desperate enough to believe almost anything if it meant their families could eat. And people in the Spires were no better. They had influence. Money. Connections. They endorsed politicians who protected their interests and rewarded them afterward.
I remembered one election in particular. A woman had run against the head of the Triumvirate after she was endorsed by a rally. She was qualified, experienced, and arguably the better candidate. But she still lost.
People in the Sinks had chosen the man instead because he gave away credas to sway the poor. Allegedly. And some openly admitted they simply didn't want a woman leading. Misogyny.
People ignored the allegations surrounding him because he promised them what they wanted to hear. The result hardly surprised anyone. The system didn't need to silence people. It only needed to convince them they were choosing freely.
"So," Gevan says, pulling me back into the conversation, "I guess I'm next."
I turn to him as he adjusts his glasses.
"I'm a student activist and journalist from East District College. I write about things people would rather keep quiet."
Weaver grins. "And a professional conspiracy theorist."
Gevan sighs. "Some of them are true."
"That doesn't make them less crazy," Weaver argues.
"You'd be surprised," Gevan says.
I smile to myself. Maybe he isn't as serious as he looks. Before I can ask him anything else, movement near the doorway catches my attention. Someone is standing there. A small figure, half-hidden by the doorframe.
I look closer. It's the girl I saw earlier.
The moment she notices me watching, she disappears behind the door.
I push myself out of my seat.
"Wait."
I follow her into the corridor, careful not to move too quickly. She stops a short distance away, her body tense.
"Hey. It's okay."
She glances at me but says nothing.
"You don't have to be scared."
She watches me cautiously, as if she's trying to decide whether I mean it.
I keep my distance. I know better than to crowd someone who already looks ready to run.
"What's your name?"
She remains silent.
Before I can try again, hurried footsteps approach from behind us.
"Reagan!"
The girl with glasses rushes toward her. I recognize her from the Core, the one with dark brown hair woven into a fishtail braid and downturned eyes that give her a perpetually worried expression.
She reaches Reagan and rests a hand on her shoulder.
"I'm sorry," she says, looking at me.
I shake my head. "She didn't do anything."
The girl seems to relax a little.
"I'm Blair."
She gestures toward the teenager beside her.
"This is Reagan."
I look between them. "Are you sisters?"
"Step-sisters."
Reagan stays close to Blair, still half-hidden behind her.
I lower my gaze to meet hers, though she quickly looks away.
"Where are you from?"
Blair's expression changes.
"The Sinks, Zone Seven. But we're originally from the neighboring state."
Something about the way she says it makes me hesitate. Her answer sounds rehearsed, but there's something hollow beneath it, too.
"Our parents came here years ago, but their arrival was never officially recognized. Neither of us were born here."
I study her for a moment, unsure what to say.
Never officially recognized?
I've heard of people falling through the cracks of the system. In the Sinks, being poor is enough to make you invisible. But to have your very existence treated as though it doesn't belong anywhere is something else entirely.
I want to ask what she means, but I stop myself. There are some answers that come with stories people aren't ready to tell. Instead, I offer her a small smile.
"Do you want to come inside?"
Blair glances at Reagan.
"Do you want to?"
Reagan hesitates before giving a small nod.
When we return to room 041, Clay looks up in surprise.
"We have guests?"
"Apparently," Weaver says.
He rises from his chair with an exaggerated flourish and gestures around the room.
"Welcome to the finest accommodations money can't buy."
Reagan smiles. It's brief, almost easy to miss, but I catch it.
There you are.
It's strange how much a small expression can change someone's face. A moment ago, she looked as though she wanted to disappear into the walls. Now, at least, she seems a little less afraid.
Blair introduces herself properly as a social worker and explains that Reagan is her step-sister. Weaver, apparently determined to make himself useful in the only way he knows how, launches into another ridiculous joke about our room being luxurious enough to qualify as a palace. This time, Reagan laughs. A real laugh. I find myself smiling along with her.
For someone so young, she seems remarkably composed. Too composed, perhaps. I know better than to assume that silence means someone has nothing to say. Sometimes, it means they've learned there are things better left unsaid.
What have you been through, Reagan?
The thought stays with me, but I don't ask. She deserves at least one conversation in which she isn't expected to explain herself.
Then a noise comes from outside. A heavy thud.
My smile fades.
I turn toward the door. "What was that?"
Nobody answers.
Another thud follows, louder this time.
I stand, curiosity getting the better of me. Whatever is happening out there, it sounds too deliberate to be an accident.
"I'll check."
I step into the corridor and follow the noise. It leads me past several doors to one standing open at the far end.
I slow as I approach.
Another thud.
I peer inside.
And there he is.
The guy from earlier, the one wearing the black tank top, now with his bare shoulders and torso exposed.
He stands before a heavy bag suspended from the ceiling, driving his fists into it with enough force to make the chain rattle. Sweat rolls down his shoulders and chest, yet his breathing remains controlled despite the relentless pace.
He definitely spends a lot of time training, though the way he moves tells me he does more than lift weights. His arms and shoulders are built, and his chest is just as solid. Every punch lands with accuracy, and he barely seems winded.
But now that I'm staring at him close enough, I noticed several pale, healed slashes cross his left shoulder, with others scattered across his arms and chest. They aren't faint enough to disappear into his skin, but they've faded with time, their edges no longer new. I find myself wondering how he got them. They don't look like the sort of marks someone picks up from an ordinary workout.
I stay by the doorway, watching.
So that's what you're doing.
He doesn't look like someone who enjoys making conversation, but he certainly seems comfortable putting his fists to work. I wonder how long he's been at it, and whether this is how he spends his time whenever nobody is watching.
Then he turns his head. Our eyes meet again. For a moment, I forget why I came here.
Something shifts at the edge of my memory. A place. A sound. A familiar detail I haven't been able to put my finger on since I first saw him in the hall.
Then it comes back to me.
Brumefall Heights.
A year ago, I'd gone there alone, not long after the anniversary of my father's death. Brumefall Heights is located at the far end of our zone, a hillside that sat near the forest, far enough from the noise of the Sinks that I could hear the wind moving through the trees. I'd gone there to think, though I wasn't sure thinking ever helped. No matter how many times I retraced the events of that day, the ending never changed.
My father was still gone. And I was still here.
I remember standing among the trees, lost in my thoughts, when the sound of a motorcycle broke the silence.
I followed the noise. A man stood near the edge of the forest, digging something into the soil.
I remember stopping when I saw him. There was something strange about the sight, something that made me hesitate instead of simply turning around and leaving. Perhaps it was the isolation of the place, or the fact that he seemed to have gone out of his way to be alone.
Then he looked up.
The first thing I noticed was the slit through his eyebrow. The second was his expensive black leather jacket. He didn't look startled to find someone watching him. He barely seemed bothered at all, as though being caught digging into the earth in the middle of nowhere was the most ordinary thing in the world.
I couldn't see what he'd buried. I hadn't stayed long enough to find out. But I remembered his face.
And now, standing in this room, I finally understand why it has been bothering me.
It's him.
The same guy from Brumefall Heights.
I stare at him, trying to reconcile the memory with the person standing in front of me. Back then, he was alone on a hillside, burying something I still know nothing about. Now he's here, wearing a collar like the rest of us, preparing for the Red Hunt.
I don't know what he was doing that day, or why he chose that particular place. I don't even know his name. But I remember the way he looked at me. Unbothered. Almost bored.
And I remember the strange feeling I had then, the uncomfortable certainty that our paths would cross again.
I just never imagined it would happen here. Lo