The Hunt is On... I Guess?

Yep. I'm covered in blood, guts, and… are those intestines? Great, just great. My inner clean freak is thrilled. The smell alone could've knocked me out, but the sight? That was another level of nightmare fuel. I wanted to puke, I really did. But before my stomach could rebel, my instincts kicked in.

Without thinking, I grabbed the nail I'd used earlier to free the screaming banshee—aka the insane lady—and went straight for Bunny Man's leg. And when I say straight, I mean direct hit. The nail plunged into his thigh with a satisfying crunch, and he let out the most human scream I've ever heard. A man's scream, in fact. So, there we have it, folks—mystery solved. Bunny Man is, indeed, a man. A very, very angry man.

He doubled over, clutching his leg like a toddler who just scraped his knee, and I didn't waste a second. Channeling every survival movie I'd ever half-watched, I leapt onto his back. Not exactly graceful, but desperate times call for desperate measures. With every ounce of adrenaline-fueled rage, I plunged the nail into his neck.

It wasn't pretty. More blood gushed out like some grotesque horror fountain, soaking what little clean real estate I had left on me. Bunny Man dropped to his knees, then collapsed face-first onto the floor.

For a moment, I just sat there, panting and trying to process what I'd done. Covered in gore, nail still clutched in my trembling hand, and staring at the now very dead Bunny Man.

"Okay," I mumbled to myself, voice shaky. "So that happened."

First things first: puke. And oh boy, do I puke. It's not your run-of-the-mill, "oops, ate some bad sushi" kind of puke. No, this is full-on, exorcism-level retching, as if my body is trying to evict every single organ just to make a point. Once I'm pretty sure there's nothing left inside me—soul included—I hear it.

A horn. No, an alarm. Something loud and distinct. And, oddly enough, it's coming from… the outside?

Cue panic mode. I look down at myself—absolutely drenched in a delightful cocktail of blood, guts, and, well, puke—and realize I can't exactly stroll outside looking like a walking crime scene. Time to improvise. I strip off my bloody, bile-soaked clothes, now standing there in my underwear like some sort of deranged action hero over the two dead bodies. Correction: one dead body and two halves of another. Poor Mr. Trust Issues, literally split in two. And wouldn't you know it, his pants are ruined, too. Just my luck.

Bunny Man, on the other hand? Oh, his outfit is somehow intact. A bunny costume-slash-lingerie number complete with stilettos. Stilettos. I take a moment to process this. This maniac was literally sprinting after us in stilettos. Respect. Also, tights. In this freezing weather. Yeah, this guy wasn't human.

I begrudgingly start stripping the Bunny Man, feeling like the worst kind of grave robber. That's when it hits me: I can't rock tights in this temperature. Unlike our bunny diva, my legs aren't built for hypothermia. So, I make my way back to what's left of Mr. Trust Issues and start peeling off his pants—or what's left of them. That's when I notice it.

A burn mark. A distinct "3" seared into his leg. Weird, right? My brain, still trying to work despite the traumatic overload, instinctively tells me to check my own legs. Lo and behold, there's a mark there too: a "6."

And here's the kicker—it's not fresh. It looks like an old scar, the same as Mr. Trust Issues' burn. Intrigued and, frankly, a little freaked out, I decide to do a full body analysis on Bunny Man. If anyone's hiding answers, it's him. But nope, nothing. Nada. Just a stiletto-wearing, lingerie-sporting enigma.

Well, if I'm going to wear the bunny outfit, I might as well commit to the bit, right? I slap on the bunny ears, feeling like the world's most unhinged cosplayer. That's when I hear it.

"Your target is 6."

A robotic voice, repeating over and over again in a cold, mechanical tone. It's coming from… the bunny ears. Fantastic. Two realizations hit me at once:

The ears are not designed for my head shape. Seriously, they're giving me the worst headache.

I was the original target.

Yeah. Not so slick, evil masterminds. Between the creepy burn scar and the high-tech murder accessories, it's pretty clear they were gunning for me all along. And now here I am, half-naked, standing over a butchered dude, wearing bunny ears that don't even fit right.

This day just keeps getting better.

Oh I almost forgot the finishing pièce de electric saw.

I picked it up, instantly realizing two things. One, this thing is heavy as hell. And two, it's covered in enough gore to make even the most seasoned horror movie prop master jealous. But hey, it's the look, right? If I'm gonna commit to the role, I need my signature weapon. Bunny Man isn't Bunny Man without his trusty saw, and let's be real—I need some kind of security blanket right now, even if it's a murder weapon dripping with blood.

Well, that's when I come up with a genius idea. What if I impersonate Bunny man over here? I mean, it's not like I was born yesterday—okay, technically I was born about four hours ago, considering I have no personal memories, but who's counting? 

I take a deep breath, trying to muster some confidence—well, as much confidence as you can when you're impersonating a psycho maniac who chased you for 2 hours while wearing a half-naked rabbit costume, and that his target was you and your supposed to be dead. Awesome. This is what my life has come to. No big deal. I got this.

The alarm's blaring now, louder and more insistent than ever, like it's trying to tell me I've somehow entered the world's most insane escape room. I'm too busy being a genius—yes, obviously—so I carve a "6" on Bunny Man's leg. Just in case the old scar thing wasn't convincing enough. You know, I've got to improvise in this unpredictable situation. He got to be me and I got to be him. Nothing personal bunny man, everything is fair in war and survival. Not that I was expecting things to go smoothly, but still.

Then, the robotic voice starts repeating: "Return to headquarters. I repeat, return to headquarters. You have 10 minutes." Oh, great. Headquarters? I'm still trying to process this whole "target" thing, but now it seems like I'm supposed to report back to some evil lair. What am I? A villain on a deadline?

Before I can really think about it, I'm frantically putting on bunny man's skimpy outfit, which is giving cunt on survival mode. Because, apparently, I've been drafted into this bizarre situation, without consent.

I head towards the source of the blaring alarm, only to find out we were in the basement this whole time. Seriously, the basement? That's why it's so cold and why I've been running around like a lunatic. Now, it's time for my great escape. I step into this massive blue elevator that feels like it could carry two elephants and still have room for a few more.

The ride up is surprisingly smooth, and when the doors open, I'm greeted with—wait for it—light. Yeah, I know it's still night, but the light here is coming from what looks like a village of sheds, all glowing like an inferno. So this is what happens when you mix heat, insanity, and a creepy basement shed cult. No wonder Bunny Man was wearing tights—if I wasn't wearing these half-assing clothes, I'd probably be melting in this temperature.

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. I'm too focused on the inferno to notice the figure approaching me until it's almost too late. A masked man is heading right towards me, his face hidden behind what looks like the creepiest smiley face I've ever seen. A white mask with two black dots for eyes and a line for a mouth—it's simple, but the vibe is all kinds of wrong.

He startles me, striding past as if I'm invisible, like I'm just another piece of scenery. What the hell is up with this guy? And seriously, who wears a full suit and hat in this heat? Meanwhile, I'm out here in a bunny lingerie ensemble, sweating like I'm in a sauna, and he's walking around like he's on his way to a gala. Priorities.

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?

Just as I think I've managed to avoid his attention, he stops. Right in front of me. Our eyes lock through the holes of his mask, and a shiver shoots up my spine. His gaze feels like it could cut through steel, and for a moment, I swear he sees right through my pathetic little charade. My heart pounds as I realize what I hadn't noticed before: he's carrying an MK 46 machine gun in his left hand. And, judging by the way he's dressed and moving, I'm willing to bet he's got more weapons on him.

I do my best to act like I don't see him—or the arsenal he's casually hauling around. 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. The same saw that, not two hours ago, was about to turn me into minced meat. 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 doesn't say a word. He just keeps walking, heading toward what I can only assume is the headquarters. I feel a wave of relief—short-lived, of course—because let's face it, I'm still in a bunny suit and probably about to meet my untimely demise.

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. The thought hits me—I really should've torched the shed I came from, you know, to destroy evidence of my very non-Bunny-Man existence. Oh well, I'll deal with that later… if there is a later.

That's when I see it: 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. Mr. Cottontail: Slayer of Guys With Trust Issues. Has a ring to it.

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.

Was I in the middle of some twisted game I didn't sign up for? That's when two things hit me, and not gently, like a realization—it was more like being smacked in the face with a frying pan of truth. First, this "hunt" wasn't just some random, psycho murder spree. No, it was a game. A literal game. Like a twisted version of hide-and-seek but with fewer giggles and way more bloodshed.

And second? Oh yeah, I was absolutely, 100% not supposed to be here. I wasn't a player; I wasn't even on the roster. I was like a confused tourist who wandered into the Hunger Games because Google Maps glitched.

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."