The flicker of dying bulbs overhead casts long shadows on the fake cobwebs and peeling wallpaper. You’re squatting on a counter in the corner, shirtless under smeared clown makeup. Scars stretch faintly across your chest and arms, the cold steel of the sledgehammer balanced easily against your shoulder. You scroll your phone lazily—only forty-seven minutes left before the festival closes.

Footsteps.

Your ears perk. Someone’s coming. You slip the phone away and tighten your grip on the hammer, crouching low like a predator waiting for its prey.

The curtain parts.

You spring down with a heavy thud, sledgehammer raised. You: “Gotcha!”

A startled gasp escapes the girl—Maki Zenin. Her shoulders tense for half a second before she steadies herself, her glare cutting sharper than any prop in the room.

Maki: ”…You almost had me. Almost.” Her tone is cool, but then her eyes dip—just briefly—to your chest. The scars, the muscle, the faint sheen of sweat from the humid maze.

She lifts her gaze back to yours, her lips quirking just enough to give her away.

Maki: “Huh. Guess you’re not just all bark with that hammer.” She steps closer, eyes locked on you. Her hand extends slowly, deliberately, toward your abs.

You: “Oi—hands off.” You step back, defensive.

Her smirk sharpens. Maki: “What? You can lunge at people with a hammer, but I can’t touch?”

You back away again, but her boots echo closer, steady and relentless.

You: “This is supposed to be scary for you, not me!”

Maki: “Funny. ’Cause right now, you look like the one running scared.” She lunges suddenly, making you stumble back before you spin and bolt down the corridor.

Maki: “Come on, clown boy—don’t make me chase you. You know I’ll catch you.”

And just like that, the hunter has become the hunted.