Page 48 of The Hunt

And I definitely planned to win.

I spotted Jake seated in the second row, casually leaning back. I slid into the pew next to him, nodding at Ari, JJ, and Nick, who were on his other side. They slightly tilted their heads back at me.

At the front, the altar dominated the space. It was a raised platform of smooth, dark stone, illuminated by a dozen candles arranged in a perfect circle. Behind it stood the eight Patriarchs, their presence towering even from a distance.

Their masks were different to the others, adorned with intricate gold designs that reflected the dim light, marking them as the ones who wielded absolute power here.

The Head Patriarch—Peter Jennings—finally stepped forward and raised his hands. The room fell silent.

“Welcome, everyone,” he said, booming voice laced with the kind of authority that made every word feel like a decree. “We gather here tonight, not only to mark the upcoming game, but to acknowledge the strength, dedication, and commitment of those who have earned their place in this room. As always, it is an honor to be in your company.”

He paused, waiting for everyone to nod and murmur their acknowledgement. Then his voice carried through the roomagain, calm and deliberate. "As you all know, the year’s most important event is fast approaching. The Hunt."

The mere mention of it sent a ripple of excitement through the crowd, subtle shifts and murmurs of anticipation.

"This year, one-hundred-and-six of you applied to participate as hunters. From that number, thirty were selected, including seventeen of our college senior members. That’s a record for the seniors, so I offer my heartiest congratulations to them."

Peter paused again, allowing the thunderous applause that erupted to finish before continuing. "As we all know, senior year of college is the first time any member may compete in the Hunt. So, for these seventeen individuals, this will be their debut, and I’m sure they are more than ready to prove themselves."

More applause followed, louder this time, accompanied by whistles and cheers from the upper pews. It was part encouragement, part recognition of the challenge ahead.

"For those who didn’t make the cut this year, or those who chose not to apply, you’ll still be part of the excitement. Via our video link, you can watch every moment unfold from the privacy of your own home. Or, for the more adventurous, you can watch from the Lodge. Those who booked early enough to get one of the east or north-facing rooms on the top floor may even catch glimpses of the action with the binoculars provided on each balcony.”

The mention of the Lodge brought a fresh wave of murmurs. The rambling Victorian monstrosity was as much a spectacle as the Hunt itself; a place for voyeurs to revel in the chaos without stepping foot on the hunting grounds.

"Now," Peter said, his tone brightening. “Let’s talk about this year’s betting pool. Wagers are already rolling in, and I’m pleased to announce that the top three favorites to win are already emerging. I’ll read them out now, in ascending order.”

He gestured to one of the other Patriarchs beside him, who handed over a tablet displaying the leaderboard. A name was read out, followed by thunderous applause. The same for the second name.

"And the number one favorite," Peter continued. "We have a first-time player, Rhett Sinclair." His gaze swept the room, searching for me. "Rhett’s performance in the trials over the past few years has earned him this coveted position in the rankings. Congratulations, Rhett.”

The applause came fast and heavy, but I barely reacted, my face a mask of calm as I accepted the acknowledgment.

"But that’s not all," Peter said, lifting a hand to quiet the crowd. "This year’s seniors have shown exceptional promise, with three more earning places in the top ten. Chris Delfino, Luke Czerniak, and Jacob Jennings. All formidable competitors who are sure to give the veterans a run for their money."

A roar of approval swept the room as he finished his praise. "This year’s Hunt is shaping up to be one of the most competitive we’ve ever seen. We should all be very proud of what these members represent. Tradition. Strength. Excellence."

He raised his hands in a signal for more applause, and the room erupted once more, the sound echoing off the building’s ancient walls.

When it finally died down, he spoke up again. His tone had shifted, a slight edge of excitement creeping into his voice. “For the first time in decades, we’ve managed to secure exactly fifty prey players for this year’s Hunt,” he said. “Twelve in Group 1, seven in Group 2, and thirty-one in Group 3.”

The crowd erupted in applause yet again, the room buzzing with anticipation.

“We were at forty-nine for a while, but I’m pleased to announce that a last-minute applicant was approved, bringing us to the perfect number. You can find the details in yourencrypted files, so let’s take a moment to go over them. Phones, everyone.”

The room shifted as each member reached into their robes or pockets, pulling out their devices. The soft tapping of screens filled the air.

I slowly scrolled past all the profiles in Groups 1 and 2. Every face looked familiar, meaning that the new applicant had to be in Group 3.

Interesting.

Group 1 was what I considered to be the most obvious, basic kind of prey to pick off. They were death-row prisoners who’d committed heinous crimes—murders or similar atrocities; the kind of offenses that made your skin crawl. The worst of the worst, trapped behind bars with nothing left but time, slowly ticking down to their execution dates.

The Hunt offered them a way out. In exchange for playing—and therefore risking their life—they had a shot at the $5 million prize awarded to the last standing civilian player.

More importantly, they’d have the chance to have their sentence commuted. Of course, this was made possible through the deep pockets and influence of the society, bribing corrupt judges, officials, and prison administrators to grant them that second chance.

The existence of Group 2 had left a bad taste in my mouth ever since I learned about it. They were terminally ill people, diagnosed with diseases that left them with only months to live. Maybe a year, max. They were still fully mobile—for now—but death was knocking at their door, and they knew there was nothing they could do to stop it.

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