I ran, blood dribbling from the cuts at the tops of my breasts. Something to stop the bleeding. I needed to find something I could use as a bandage. Was that part of their game? To help me?

I felt like I was living in the world of the Hunger Games.

Only the strong will survive.

Was anyone else being chased? Or were they focused on me?

I’d been running and hiding for a while now. I had no idea of the time, as time had seemed to suspend itself since I’d awoken in the cement room.

My stomach growled. So far, they’d fed me well. But would they continue to do so, now that they’d let me out and the game was on?

Survival of the fittest.

They’d considered me fit, so they’d given me a handicap by cutting me. The cut was deep enough to hurt, deep enough to bleed, yet not deep enough to slow me down. Already my blood was beginning to clot.

They wanted me in pain. They didn’t want me bleeding out.

Could I outsmart them?

Maybe, on an even playing field. But this was far from an even playing field. I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know what I’d find down here. I didn’t know where my next meal was coming from. I didn’t know where I could go to the bathroom.

I knew nothing.

Nothing except my life was in jeopardy and would most likely be over soon.

Instinct required that I survive.

They must have given me a head start, as I didn’t hear anyone following me. I found a secluded corner, sat down, and applied pressure with my hands to the cuts on my breasts. I couldn’t afford to wait here for long, but if I could stop the bleeding altogether, I’d be able to move faster.

“Help me.”

I cocked my head at the soft voice. No one was here.

I was imagining things. I had to be. And why not? I was fighting for my life. Fighting for my future.

And my future was the next minute.

If I was lucky, the next hour.

“Help me.”

“Stop it,” I said aloud. “You’re imagining things.”

“I hear you,” the voice said. “Help me. Please.”

Still my imagination. A boobytrap, probably. I wasn’t falling for it.

When I finally had stopped the bleeding, I rose. I couldn’t run now or the precarious clots wouldn’t hold. Which was, of course, the point.

I inched slowly against the wall, the cement rough against my back. I turned a corner, and—

I clasped my hand to my mouth.

“Help me.”

A young woman lay curled in a fetal position. She was naked, as I was, and her head had been shaved. And she looked young. So young. I was only nineteen myself.

I knelt down. “Hey. Who are you?”

“Please help me.”