The Hunt is On... I Guess?

I'm covered in blood, guts, and—wait, are those intestines? Great, just great. The smell alone could've KO'd me, but the visuals? Chef's kiss of nightmare fuel. I wanted to hurl, truly, but my survival instincts were faster than my stomach.

Without thinking, I grabbed the nail I'd used earlier to free the screaming lady— aka the blood thirsty banshee—and aimed straight for Bunny Man's leg. The nail plunged into his thigh with a sickening crunch, and a scream ripped out of him. A man's scream. So, Bunny Man? Confirmed man. Also, confirmed pissed.

He crumpled, clutching his leg, but I wasn't about to stick around for his Yelp review. I launched myself onto his back—graceful as a flailing walrus, but hey, survival's not about elegance. My shaking hand rammed the nail into his neck. 

Blood erupted from him in a grotesque fountain, splattering everything, including me. It soaked into what little clean space was left on my skin. Bunny Man dropped to his knees, then collapsed face-first into the gore.

For a moment, I froze, panting. What had I just done? The nail still gripped tightly in my shaking hand, I stared at the lifeless body.

"Okay," I whispered, my voice unsteady. "So… that happened."

My stomach rebelled, and I lost the fight. This wasn't your average "bad sushi" puke; this was evacuate all internal organs level. When I was convinced I'd expelled my soul, an alarm blared. 

A horn. No, it was definitely an alarm. It was loud and distinct. And, oddly, it was coming from... the outside?

I was a walking crime scene by now, dripping in enough bodily fluids to gross out a mortician. So if I had to go outside I had to Improv. As I removed my blood-soaked clothes while standing in my underwear like some deranged action figure, I eyeballed Bunny Man's outfit which was still intact—it looked like a hybrid between a bunny costume and lingerie, paired with stilettos. Seriously? Stilettos. This psychopath was chasing us around in heels. For a brief second, I almost respected him.

I reluctantly stripped him, feeling like the worst kind of grave robber. That's when I noticed something. A burn mark on his leg—a distinctive "3" branded into his flesh. Curiosity pulled me to check my own leg. There it was: a "6."

I stared, something cold settling in my chest. Curious—or maybe just panicked—I yanked what was left of Trust Issues pants—half-shredded and soaked in blood—off his leg. 

That's when I saw it: a number branded into his thigh. An "8," raised and angry against his skin. I wore the pants while trying to make a plan. 

What the hell was this? My brain, which was still trying to process the whole nightmare, told me to investigate further. So I examined the bunny ears as I wore the somewhat miraculously clean bunny costume. 

The voice was cold and mechanical. Coming from the ears, it was repeating the words over and over: "Your target is 8." 

Now everything made sense. I was never the target. That's why the bunny man didn't kill me even when he had the chance. 

I wore the somewhat big bunny ears and picked up the electric saw Bunny Man had been carrying. This thing was covered in so much blood, it could've been a prop in a slasher flick. But, in a twisted way, it was now my security blanket.

Taking a deep breath, I carved a "6" into Bunny Man's leg to confuse whoever was behind this madness. Call me twisted, but I wasn't ready to be someone's next target. The alarm was blaring louder, more urgent now, and I was running out of time. Time to blend in, to become Bunny Man. 

The robotic voice came again: "Return to headquarters. I repeat, return to headquarters. You have 30 minutes."

Wait—headquarters? What was I, a villain on a deadline?

I rushed towards the source of the blaring alarm, only to discover that we were in a basement. Of course. Why not? Cold, claustrophobic, and full of horror movie potential.

At the end I saw an elevator so huge that it could've carried two elephants easily. The ride was surprisingly smooth, and when the doors opened, I was greeted by—wait, what?

As I walk towards what looks like a street, the fire blazing across from it feels surreal—like a scene ripped straight out of a dystopian fever dream. A village of sheds, glowing eerily in the night, flames licking the air. This was what happened when you mixed insanity, heat, and cold storage, apparently. That's when my bunny ear headset chirped with a chilling announcement: "Blowing up shed in 10 minutes."

What. The. Fuck.

I bolted, eyes locked on the shed, fully unaware of the explosion radius. My legs carried me far — maybe half a mile — before I finally stopped, lungs burning from the smoky air. Even then, I couldn't tear my gaze away from the shed. So fixated on the scene behind me, I didn't see him until it was too late.

I collided headfirst into a figure's —chest, stomach, who knows? There's too much smoke. Masked. Tall. A smiley face mask—simple, but creepy as hell. A plain white mask with two black dots for eyes and a line for a mouth. It's basic, but the energy is all kinds of wrong.

What the hell is up with this guy? And seriously, who wears a full suit and hat in this heat? Meanwhile, I'm stuck in a bunny lingerie outfit, sweating like I'm baking in a sauna, and he's strolling around like he's heading to a gala. Priorities, right?

He looks down at me, our eyes locking through the holes in his mask, and a shiver runs up my spine. His gaze is cold, calculated—like it could slice through steel. For a split second, I feel exposed, like he's seeing through my entire pathetic act. My heart races as I realize something I hadn't noticed before: in his left hand, he's carrying an MK 46 machine gun. And judging by the way he's dressed, I'm willing to bet he's got more weapons stashed somewhere.

I make a silent prayer that he doesn't know Bunny Man personally—or worse, recognize the lingerie I'm rocking. How would I even begin to explain bunny man growing boobs overnight? 

Meanwhile, I'm trying to hide the blood-soaked electric saw behind my back like a guilty kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar. I grip it tighter, praying he doesn't see it and take it as a threat, because let's face it: one headshot from this guy and I'm done for.

My breathing is shallow, my knees feel like they're about to give out, and all I can think is, Please, please, let him be just as weird as everyone else here and not ask too many questions.

But, as luck would have it, Mask Man says nothing. Without a glance, he simply turns and strides past me, heading toward what I can only assume is headquarters. A wave of relief washes over me—brief but welcome— until Wait. Is he heading toward the shed I just fled from? My headset crackles ominously, counting down: "Five minutes to explode." Before I can stop myself, I rasp out a hoarse warning, more cough and a whisper than a yell: "I wouldn't go that way. That shed's about to blow."

Great, now I'm dead for sure. Mask Man pauses and turns, his stare drilling into me. Yep. Definitely dead. Then, without a word, he tilts his head like he's processing my words—an imaginary question mark practically hovering over him.

Before I can brace for whatever comes next— BOOM. The shed went up in a fiery spectacle that would've made Michael Bay proud. The blast wave hit me square in the face like Mother Nature herself decided to slap me for my questionable life choices. My hair whipped back, and for a second, I swear I tasted fire.

But then, to my utter disbelief, Mask Man simply pivots, cool as ever, circling around me and continuing toward where he came from. WHAT THE HELL?! Not a word. Not even a grunt.

Still, curiosity (or sheer stupidity) drives me. I fall into step behind him, following him from a safe distance (a solid 20 feet, thank you very much; I'm not here for a headshot), I start noticing massive buildings beyond the initial burning sheds and a wall. A massive, towering wall that stretches so high it practically scrapes the sky. It encircles the entire area, sealing this place off from the outside world. Crap. So much for any escape plan. It's like I've stumbled into a dystopian theme park, and the bunny ears aren't even the weirdest part of this nightmare. This place isn't just a base—it's a world of its own.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity roasting in this hellscape, we arrived at the building—the crown jewel of dystopian nightmares. It looked like someone couldn't decide between designing an ancient library, a haunted apartment complex, or a villain's lair and just went, "Why not all three?" The structure loomed high, so tall it made the sky-reaching walls surrounding this place look like they were compensating for something.

The Masked Man stopped at the hulking door. With a dramatic hiss, it creaked open, welcoming him like the gates of hell itself. No "please" or "thank you," just psshht, and he was swallowed into the void. The doors clanged shut behind him.

Steeling myself, I approached the door, trying to channel every ounce of confidence I imagined a blood-soaked bunny assassin would have. Should I knock? Stand silently like Mask Man? Before I could decide, the bunny ears perched on my head chirped to life with a mechanical voice: "Welcome, Mr. Cottontail."

Mr. Cottontail? First of all, how dare they assume my gender, but also… damn, that's a pretty solid name. I could rock that.

Before I could bask in the weird compliment, a camera mounted above the door swiveled towards me, its lens zooming in like it was about to judge my outfit choices. (Honestly? Fair. Bunny lingerie is not exactly my best look.)

Then, a voice crackled from the speaker—cheerful. Too cheerful. The kind of cheerful you'd expect from someone who's just poisoned your drink and wants to watch you squirm.

"Hello, Mr. Cottontail—or is it Ms. Cottontail? (Updating files.) WELCOME! Did you enjoy your hunt???"

I stared at the camera, my face a mix of panic and forced confidence. What hunt? The hunt for pants that fit? The hunt for my sanity? I gave a sharp nod, hoping it said, Yeah, I'm totally chill. Definitely not questioning all my life choices right now.

The camera tilted slightly, its lens zooming in on me as if it could sense my inner turmoil. Yeah, I'm onto you, Mr./Ms. Cottontail, it seemed to say. Meanwhile, the chirpy voice continued, completely oblivious to the existential crisis it was causing.

"Did you bring back a souvenir?!" the voice asked, like we were on a casual beach vacation and not standing outside a murder factory.

Souvenir? Oh, you mean the blood, guts, and lingering existential dread? Sure, I brought plenty of that. But instead of answering, I gave another stiff nod. Because what else do you do when you're an imposter wearing bunny lingerie, holding a stolen saw, and standing outside the gates of chaos?

The doors creaked open, and what greeted me was… absolutely nothing. No grand reveal, no sinister glow, not even the faint flicker of a dying lightbulb. Just pure, unrelenting darkness. I'm talking the kind of darkness that makes you question if you've suddenly gone blind.

"Really?" I muttered under my breath. "No mood lighting? Not even a creepy flickering lamp? What kind of amateur villain lair is this?"

I hesitated on the threshold, trying to peer into the void, which stared right back at me like it was daring me to step inside. For all I knew, I was about to walk into a pit or a nest of murder bunnies. But then the bunny ears chirped again.

"Step inside, Ms. Cottontail!" the overly cheerful voice said, almost tauntingly. "and enjoy the… show."

Show? Oh yeah, nothing screams Show like pitch black nothingness. Still, I stepped in, gripping the saw tighter because, let's face it, I wasn't about to risk losing a toe—or my head—to the darkness.

The doors slammed shut behind me with a resounding clang. "Great," I muttered. "Now it's just me and the void. My favorite."