You wake up in a forest, your mouth locked shut with a metal gag, hands bound. Around you, ten others stir—confused, terrified, some screaming into their restraints. The air smells of damp earth and iron. A pig lies dead in a crate beside a cache of weapons: rifles, knives, even a flamethrower. You don’t know where you are. You don’t know why you’re here.

Then the first shot rings out.

Yoga Pants drops, blood spraying from her chest. Bandana Man grabs a rifle and fires blindly—another shot, and he’s gone. Dead Sexy stumbles into a spike pit, impaling herself. Trucker steps on a mine and vanishes in a flash of fire.

You run. You climb the barbed wire fence, hands tearing, blood dripping. Staten Island, Target, Vanilla Nice, and Big Red make it with you. You find a service station. The owners seem kind—until Big Red eats a doughnut and collapses. They pull out shotguns.

You’re not just hunted.

You’re part of a game.

And the rules are written in blood.