The sunlight hits you like a physical force, a stark contrast to the dim, hushed atmosphere of the library. You blink a few times, letting your eyes adjust as you step onto the bustling sidewalk. The air smells different outside – a mix of exhaust fumes and something sweet, maybe blooming flowers you can’t identify. You pull your lightweight jacket tighter around you, even though the afternoon air is warm. You still feel a chill from that encounter with Professor Melody.
“Professor… Melody…” you mutter to yourself, testing the name on your tongue. It sounds like a song, almost too sweet for the sharp intelligence you saw in her eyes. You shake your head, pushing the unease aside. Focus. Home. Food. You haven’t eaten properly all day, just a small rice cake this morning, and your stomach is now a hollow pit. You decide to take the longer route home, through the park, hoping the walk will clear your head and maybe offer a less crowded path.
Turning onto a smaller street, you see a sign pointing towards ‘Greenwood Trail’. The words are in English, of course, and you have to sound them out in your head, slowly, awkwardly. “Green… wood… Trail.” You think it means a path in the woods, or maybe a park. You decide to try it. A trail sounds peaceful, and you could use some peace.
Following the signs, which you decipher with painstaking effort, you eventually find yourself at the entrance to a green space. It’s not a dense forest like back home, more like a park with winding paths cutting through open grassy areas and clusters of trees. You step onto the trail, the soft earth cushioning your feet, a welcome change from the hard pavement.
The park is relatively empty at this time of day. A few women are walking dogs, their voices carrying snippets of conversation that you don’t understand. You pass a group of girls laughing loudly, their eyes briefly flicking over you before they resume their chatter, oblivious. You keep your head down, your gaze fixed on the path ahead. You are still learning to navigate this world, still feeling like an outsider, a ghost moving through their vibrant reality.
As you round a bend in the trail, you see him. A man. Alone. He’s walking quickly in the opposite direction, his shoulders hunched, his head down as if he’s trying to disappear into himself. He’s wearing simple clothes, casual pants and a plain shirt, his frame slender, almost fragile.
Your breath catches in your throat. It’s him. Your prey.
Your stomach, already rumbling, clenches tighter. Hunger, sharp and insistent, floods through you. You haven’t planned on hunting today, not really. You were just going home, hoping to find something in your small refrigerator, maybe some leftovers from yesterday’s instant noodles. But opportunity, stark and undeniable, has presented itself. And in this world, you’ve learned, opportunity is not something to be ignored when you are hungry.
Your predator instincts, always simmering beneath the surface, ignite. Your senses sharpen. The sounds of the park fade, replaced by the rhythmic thud of your own heart and the faint, rapid footsteps of the man ahead. You lick your lips, a reflex, tasting nothing but the dry air, yet your mouth still waters in anticipation.
He’s perfect. Alone, preoccupied, and clearly vulnerable. He’s not looking around, not aware of his surroundings, lost in his own thoughts, or perhaps his own fears. In this world, every man carries a flicker of fear in their eyes, a constant awareness of the ever-present danger of women like you. But this one… he seems particularly… unaware.
You slow your pace, letting him get a little further ahead. You don’t want to startle him, not yet. You want to approach him from behind, silently, like a shadow. You scan the surroundings – a few scattered trees, thick bushes bordering the path, then a small, secluded alcove further ahead, hidden from the main trail. Perfect.
You quicken your steps, moving with a newfound purpose. You are no longer just Mengqi, the confused foreign student. You are something else now, something older, something primal. You are a hunter, and the hunt is on.
You move silently, your feet barely making a sound on the soft earth. Your eyes are fixed on the man’s retreating back, gauging the distance, planning your approach. He’s still walking fast, but you are faster. You are always faster.
As you get closer, you can hear his breathing, shallow and uneven. He’s nervous, or anxious, about something. It doesn’t matter. It only makes him easier prey.
The alcove is just ahead. It’s screened by a dense cluster of bushes, offering complete privacy from the trail. You pick up your pace, closing the distance between you and your target. He’s almost there, almost within striking distance of the secluded spot.
This is it.
You burst into a sprint, your slim legs pumping, your body moving with surprising speed and agility. You close the gap in seconds. He must have heard you then, a sudden rush of footsteps behind him. He turns, his eyes widening in alarm as he sees you bearing down on him.
There’s a flicker of recognition in his gaze, a dawning horror – he sees you, a woman, approaching him with purpose, and in this world, that can only mean one thing. Fear explodes in his eyes, wide and desperate.
But it’s too late.
You reach him, your momentum carrying you forward. You lash out with a quick, precise strike, the heel of your hand connecting with the side of his neck, just below his ear. It’s a move you’ve practiced, honed to perfection. It’s not about brute force, it’s about precision, about hitting the right spot to disrupt the nervous system, to shut down the body without causing unnecessary damage.
He gasps, his eyes going wide with shock and pain, then confusion. His legs buckle beneath him, and he collapses to the ground, unconscious before he even hits the earth.
It’s done. As quickly and cleanly as you planned.
You stand over him for a moment, catching your breath, your heart pounding not with fear, but with the adrenaline rush of the hunt. You quickly check your surroundings. No one around. Just the rustling of leaves and the distant sounds of the park.
You bend down and hoist the unconscious man over your shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He’s light, thankfully, barely weighing you down. You adjust your grip, making sure he’s secure, and then you turn and head towards the secluded alcove.
You push through the thick bushes, stepping into the hidden space. It’s small, shaded, and completely private. Perfect. You gently lower the man to the ground, laying him carefully among the soft leaves and pine needles.
He’s still out cold, his chest rising and falling in slow, shallow breaths. You take a moment to catch your own breath, letting the adrenaline subside. You look down at him, your prey, your meal.
You’re not cruel. You never are. You don’t enjoy this, not in the way some women do. For them, it’s about power, about dominance, about fear. For you, it’s about survival. It’s about necessity. It’s about being hungry in a world that doesn't easily provide for you.
You kneel beside him, your gaze lingering on his face. He’s young, maybe a little older than you, but still young. His features are soft, vulnerable even in unconsciousness. A pang of something, not quite guilt, but something akin to it, flickers through you.
But the hunger is stronger. It’s a primal need, a biological imperative. You need to eat. You have no other options right now. And he was there, alone, vulnerable, an easy opportunity presented to you.
You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. You push aside the flicker of empathy, focusing on the hunger, on the need. This is the way things are here. This is the way you survive.
