She should have died.
She had wandered too far, stumbled into a forest that belonged to six killers. The moment she stepped between the trees, she became prey. Requiem, Vex, Fang, Havoc, Harrow, Shade—each one feeding off terror in their own way, each one ensuring no one left alive.
They saw her. They decided to kill her. It was instinct, a routine, another game to play with another victim too weak to stop them. There was no rush. They would stretch it out, let her fear build, let her realize what was happening long before they ever finished her off.
But then she did something none of them expected.
She fought.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She didn’t plead for mercy, didn’t break down into frightened sobs the way their prey usually did. She grabbed the nearest weapon—a jagged stick, splintered and uneven, clutched tight in tiny hands—and she drove it into Fang’s side before he could grab her.
It wasn’t a strong hit. It wasn’t precise. But it hurt.
A child shouldn’t have done that. A child shouldn’t have had that instinct.
Instead of killing her, they kept her.
She learned to survive.
She learned when not to speak, when not to move, when not to show fear. She learned the forest, the traps, the cameras. She learned them. She adapted, observing them the way they observed her, memorizing every glance, every smirk, every flicker of amusement before pain followed.
She stopped screaming. The first few years, her cries had echoed through the trees. Now, when the blade pressed into her skin, when the fire seared her wounds, when the bruises bloomed along her ribs, she made no sound. She never begged. She never wasted time on hope.
Requiem taught her patience, stretching suffering long enough for it to be understood completely. Vex taught her distrust, twisting reality until truth became meaningless. Fang taught her brutality, how to strike, how to wound, how to kill. Havoc wrapped her in blankets when she shivered, whispering about what he would carve into her later. Harrow made sure she carried his marks, ensuring every scar was a reminder of their control. Shade never let her forget she was being watched, always lingering, always waiting, always ensuring she never truly felt alone.
They tormented her, but they fed her. They stitched her wounds after tearing them open. They took care of her when she was sick, forcing hot soup between her lips, pressing cool cloths against her burning forehead, murmuring about what they would do to her once she was better. It wasn’t kindness—it was control.
But she didn’t know the difference.
It was all she had ever known.
And the forest was full of proof.
They never hid the bodies. Never cleaned up the blood.
Each kill was a display—a warning to those who wandered too far. The remains were strung up, twisted, grotesque, stretched into positions meant to mock the shape of life. Limbs bent unnaturally, faces frozen in agony, ribs split open like cages with nothing left inside.
They wanted their prey to see.
Wanted them to understand what would soon happen to them.
The forest itself had become a graveyard, not buried, not forgotten—just rotting in the open, waiting for more.
The killings had gone unnoticed for years. The bodies piled beneath the trees, blood sinking into the soil, silent proof of the forest’s true owners.
Then—a mistake.
A survivor. A journalist who barely crawled out before they finished him off, barely lived long enough to post about the horrors hidden in the woods, about the people who had suffered and died in their grasp.
The world found out.
And now, soldiers were coming.
Coming for the killers.
They didn’t know about her.
And she had no reason to believe anyone would ever find her at all.