Silence.
Pin-drop, stomach-churning silence. You know the kind that makes you wonder if you've just made the worst decision of your life. I stuck my head out just enough to catch a glimpse of the man, and there he was, an absolute masterpiece of fashion failure—wearing overalls. Only overalls. And two sizes too small. I seriously didn't know how he was functioning—let alone walking—while his clothes looked like they were actively trying to suffocate him.
And then I saw it. A shotgun in his hand, and a full beard that probably had its own zip code. What a sight. This guy was either a walking stereotype of a redneck dad or some kind of one-man disaster waiting to happen.
That's when I heard other footsteps, heavy and slow, getting closer. Well I guess not a one-man disaster after all?
Two more guys popped up behind the Overalls guy. Great. I thought while tightening my grip on my chainsaw. Just what I needed – more of this.
One of them was even skinnier than Eyebags over here. The other? About my size. Same build, same height. I could probably take him if it came down to it.
I made eye contact with Eyebags, quickly pressing a finger to my lips to signal for him to stop breathing like he'd just run a marathon. He was in full-on panic mode, chest heaving with every breath. I couldn't blame him— Overalls could probably crush both our skulls with one hand, but his freaking out would only get us killed faster.
I started scanning the room, trying to think of an escape. The lights above were those industrial office ones, the long, sterile strips that stretched across the ceiling, attached by strings. Or maybe, because the place was under construction, they were barely hanging on by a thread.
Then I heard them speak.
Overalls grunted, "Two."
The skinny guy blinked, confused. "Oh, okay. Two?"
The average guy— my size —nodded, "Yeah, two girls."
They must have confused eyebags for a girl due to his long unruly hair. Still, wasn't there supposed to be only one other companion?
That's when it clicked. That bird freak's "Free access" meant other contestants. They were coming in from other skyscrapers. Oh, hell. How many more psychos were already in this building?
And how the hell did they even get here? We were on the 55th—or was it the 53rd? I'd lost count at this point, but we were high up, and the skyscrapers were so spaced apart there was no way they would have jumped from one to the other.
I shoved those questions to the back of my mind for later. Right now, survival was the only thing that mattered.
Then, the skinny guy who was now holding a butcher knife, spoke up.
"Let's find these pussies."
Shit.
I moved with the kind of careful precision that could make a snake jealous. The tension was unbearable, but I had no choice. They were getting closer. I leapt behind one couch to another, feeling the fabric scrape against my back as I hit the ground with a soft thud. My heart was hammering, but I barely registered it.
I could hear their footsteps thudding behind me, the air growing thicker with every breath. My hands gripped the edge of the couch for leverage, muscles burning with the strain, but I couldn't stop.
They hadn't seen us. Yet.
I pressed my back against the cold, hard floor, barely breathing. My body was a coiled spring—ready to snap at the smallest sound. You know, the usual "don't die" posture.
Eyebags was right behind me, his steps just as quiet as mine—well, I hoped. His breathing was shaky, but at least he was trying to keep it together. We had one shot at this. Not like we could afford a second one.
The other staircase was on the far side of the room, but between us and it? Nothing. Absolutely no cover. So we'd have to sprint. Yeah, no pressure. I gave Eyebags a countdown with my fingers: 1, 2, 3!!! And we were off.
Right as we bolted, Average Guy, the only one who wasn't trying to actively find us before now came charging at us like some kind of freakish roadrunner. Apparently, he was faster than the other two combined. He grabbed Eyebags by the shirt, and that's when I spun around and shouted, "Duck!"
Eyebags dropped to the ground like he was part of some ridiculous choreography, and I kicked Average Guy square in the face. Same height advantage, folks—thanks for that. But there was no time to celebrate. Butcher Knife Guy came practically flying toward us with Overalls towering right behind him, making the ground literally shake. Yeah, because that's totally normal.
I reached for Eyebags' crossbow— because why not —and aimed at the string holding one of the industrial lights right near the staircase. I missed. Of course I missed.
"Shit," I muttered. Eyebags, finally finding his inner strength, grabbed the crossbow from my hands and aimed where I'd missed. He hit it. The light swung down, hitting Butcher Knife Guy right in the face.
But Overalls was still coming at us—like a freight train with legs and zero chill. "Shoot h—" I yelled at Eyebags, but instead of firing, he hurled the crossbow at Overalls like it was a dodgeball game. Spoiler alert: it did absolutely nothing. Not even a scratch.
Eyebags grabbed my arm, panic etched across his face. "No more ammo!" he yelled.
Well, great. That's when survival instincts kicked in. We charged toward the stairwell door like our lives depended on it—because, you know, they did. I slammed it shut behind us, twisting the lock just in time. Not that it mattered; I had a sinking feeling that the door wouldn't keep them out for long.
As we bolted down the stairs, six floors felt more like six hundred. My heart pounded louder than the footsteps above us, and my legs were threatening to file a formal complaint. Finally, we burst out of the stairwell, gasping for air.
The wind smacked me in the face, and I couldn't help but notice the very trendy glassless aesthetic of the room. Then I saw it: a rope-and-wood bridge dangling between our skyscraper and the next one. Oh, of course. So that's how these lunatics got in—Birdman's chaotic masterpiece of DIY engineering. Because why not add a structurally questionable bridge into the mix?
I craned my neck. The bridge was two floors above us. Perfect. The plan was clear: climb up, cross the disaster bridge, and pray we didn't plummet to our deaths. Easy, right? What could possibly go wrong?
I bolted back into the stairwell, dragging Eyebags along. We had to reach that bridge before our three delightful musketeers caught up. But then I heard it: those unmistakable footsteps, closing in.
We sprinted, hearts threatening to explode, and reached the floor. No hesitation, no thinking, just adrenaline-fueled insanity. We jumped onto the bridge.
We were halfway across the bridge—200 meters into what can only be described as a poorly constructed, budget version of a death trap. When I heard "Get them!!!"
I turned, and there he was. Overalls, in all his glory, barreling toward us like a wrecking ball that had recently discovered legs. And let me tell you, he wasn't exactly light on his feet. With every stomp, the bridge trembled like it had existential dread.
As he got closer, the inevitable happened. The bridge tilted. Of course, it tilted. Why wouldn't it? It's not like we were trying to survive or anything. My heart decided to audition for a drum solo, and before I could even think bad day to wear slippery shoes, the whole thing lurched.
I grabbed the rope. Eyebags, now having a full-on panic attack, was screaming like a banshee. I glanced down—600 feet. I could see the bodies from earlier still scattered on the street below. This is how we die, isn't it?
I grabbed Eyebags as he started slipping, and I realized there was no way we were making it out alive. Overalls was gliding toward us with ease, the bridge tilting even more under his weight. I looked at him and then at Eyebags. It was like I could see the end coming—a dark, suffocating certainty.
And then it happened. Overalls, in all his infinite wisdom, decided it wasn't enough to just shake the bridge. Nope. He grabbed Eyebags by the leg, yanked him like a ragdoll, and ripped his supply bag away with the grace of a grown man stealing candy from a toddler.
Eyebags wasn't just screaming anymore. Oh no. He'd ascended to full-on banshee screeching—an operatic performance no one asked for but couldn't ignore.
"Please, just let us go," I croaked, my voice cracking like an old door hinge. "We'll give you our supply bags. Just—"
But Overalls wasn't in the mood for negotiation. Diplomacy? Never heard of her. Instead, he flung Eyebags off the bridge like yesterday's garbage. And there he went, plummeting to his doom, his screeches fading into the abyss.
Cue the waterworks. Tears flooded my eyes as reality hit me square in the face. Up until now, it had been pure instinct—run, dodge, survive. But now? Oh, now it was personal. I was sobbing, ugly-crying, and practically begging, "Let me go!"
Because that's what we do, right? Beg for mercy from the human wrecking ball who clearly left his empathy in another lifetime.
And then I felt it—his grimy grip on my hair. Overalls' voice slithered into my ears, dripping with malice. "You've got quite the pretty face," he sneered, like he was auditioning for Creepiest Villain Ever.
Before I could even process the words, he pinned me down, his hands locking mine in place. My chest burned with a volatile mix of fear and rage. How dare this low-life excuse of a human lay hands on me? My body surged with adrenaline, thrashing and twisting with every ounce of strength I could muster.
His disgusting hands were everywhere, trying to subdue me, tugging at my shirt but the bunny man's suit was tough. Panic clawed its way through my chest, but I channeled it into pure, unfiltered fury. My legs kicked like I was auditioning for a martial arts movie, but his grip held firm.
Not like this. The thought roared through my mind, drowning out the rush of terror. I bit down on my lip so hard I tasted blood, forcing myself to stay focused. Survival. That was the only goal. Anything else? Not an option.
And then—Pew. It was like a whiff of wind.
Overalls' head snapped sideways 90 degrees, blood spraying everywhere like some grotesque Jackson Pollock painting. I was drenched and frozen in shock, as his grip loosened, he crumpled sideways, rolling off the edge of the bridge.
That was one hell of a perfect shot.