Once we’re in the clothing, I look down at the couple, wondering what to do with them.

“We shouldn’t leave them alive,” Achilles says, mimicking my thoughts though more gruesome than I imagined. “They’re a liability.”

Row scoffs. “We’re not monsters,” he argues, crossing his arms over his bare chest. “We’ll be gone before they wake up.”

I agree with Row. We’re not monsters, but we are Prey fighting for survival. Sometimes the Prey has to become the predator to survive. The animal kingdom is a harsh place. We can’t think like humans. We have to think like them.

“No, but they are,” Achilles says, his eyes on Row. “And speak for yourself. Some of us don’t mind being monsters.”

I’m standing, staring at the couple while wearing a stolen dress and diamonds, a pair of high heels that’ll be a size too small for me dangling from my fingertips. These are people, no matter my instinct to think of them as other animals. They called us ‘Prey’ and expect us to act like it. I happen to think they’re the Prey, soft, easy, vibrant.

“They would kill us without question,” Jiro points out, clearly on Achilles’ side.

Creed hums under his breath, not speaking out but clearly understanding both sides. He’d said he’d retired from the military to avoid this very thing, but he’d also said this situation is different. However, they’re not currently a threat, knocked out as they are before us. The moment they wake up though, if they’re sober enough, they can tell everyone about the Prey that came onto the island.

When all eyes turn to me as the deciding factor, I don’t shy away from it. This is the hierarchy we’ve somehow developed. While they’re experts, when they can’t decide, they look to me for a different opinion. But now, after ten days on Prey Island, my mind has been corrupted, warped. I’m no longer Billie from Colorado watering Keanu Leaves. I’m a rabbit with claws, one with a taste for blood. But Billie is still in there, so I say, “Survival of the fittest, right?” Jiro nods, but I look over at Row for the question I have. “Who are they?

“I don’t know much about the woman besides she’s his mistress, but Greg Holiday is well known. He’s a predatory movie producer. He Preys on young girls and women with the help of his wife and whatever mistress is on his arm. All of these women, they help him. He’s an asshole, but charismatic and rich so he gets away with it,” Row murmurs. With each word he says, he seems to realize what he’s arguing for and how stupid it is. He knows my decision before I ask.

“So, he’s a pedophile?” I clarify. “And this woman helps him?”