CHAPTER 160: MONSTERS AND THEIR PREY

My jeans were unzipped now, underwear yanked down just enough to expose what they wanted. The cold air bit into my skin, and shame flushed over me hotter than anything else. One of them reached around and grabbed me again—my cock still betraying me, semi-hard despite everything.

"Sick little thing," the one behind me laughed. "Still leaking."

"Don’t worry," the other added, his voice almost tender. "They all confuse fear for lust at first."

Tears stung the corners of my eyes.

This isn’t happening. This isn’t sex. This is a game I already lost.

I bit my lip harder—so hard I tasted blood again. But still didn’t speak.

I wouldn’t beg. Not yet.

Then, somewhere outside—through the stone walls or metal vents—I heard it:

A scream.

It wasn’t mine.

It was human.

Young. Fragile. Full of desperation.

Someone crying.

A voice sobbed something over and over—"Please stop, I’ll do anything, please—"

I froze. My stomach turned.

The two around me chuckled.

"Another freshman," the one holding my hips said. "They cry louder when they still believe someone’s coming to save them."

The other leaned down again, close enough to press his lips against my ear.

"No one is coming," he whispered.

Then he licked the tear from my cheek.

They used their hands, their mouths, their claws—testing me, hurting me just enough to leave marks. One of them bit my shoulder hard enough to bruise. Another clawed lines across my lower back, deep but not enough to bleed out. They took turns pinning me, pressing me to the ground like a dog they were training into obedience.

I shook. I trembled. I cried silently, unable to stop the tears now as my knees gave out and I collapsed under them.

They took turns. Sometimes together. Sometimes rough. Sometimes whispering terrible things into my ears.

The pain wasn’t just physical.

It was the realization that I was never getting out.

That I wasn’t a student.

I was a pet.

A toy.

A body.

When it was over, I lay there, trembling. Used. Empty. The floor sticky beneath me, my throat raw, my body aching from places I didn’t want to think about.

They laughed as they redressed.

"He’ll break soon," one of them said. "But we’ll make him beg first."

"We always do."

"I give him a week before he begs to be used," the other replied.

They laughed again—cruel and careless.

They left me there.

On the cold stone floor.

Naked.

Bleeding.

Broken.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, beneath the horror and the pain, a tiny voice whispered:

You have to get out.

Before they ruin you completely.

My arms barely worked. My chest heaved with dry, soundless sobs. My wrists ached from how they’d been twisted. My body felt like it belonged to someone else now—something used and thrown aside.

I couldn’t move for a long time.

Couldn’t think.

I just laid there and listened.

Somewhere nearby, the other human was still crying.

Somewhere deeper in this hell, someone else was begging to die.

And all I could do was lay still and try not to fall apart.

********

I stayed there.

On the cold floor. Curled up. Bleeding. Trembling.

For hours.

No one came. Not to check. Not to help. Not even to laugh.

Just silence.

Eventually—when my limbs stopped shaking enough to move—I forced myself up. My legs were stiff. My shirt hung off me in tatters, and the dried blood on my back pulled tight against my skin every time I moved.

I didn’t think. I couldn’t.

I just went.

The nearest washroom was empty—at least for now. I staggered inside, locking the stall behind me with shaking fingers. I stood under the flickering lights, staring at myself in the cracked mirror, and tried to make sense of what had just happened.

But nothing made sense.

It was too wild to be real. Too violent. Too wrong.

And yet... the bruises on my ribs. The claw marks. The aching sting between my legs. The scent of blood I couldn’t scrub out of my nose. It all proved the same thing:

It was real.

No matter how much I wanted it to be a nightmare, it wasn’t.

I splashed cold water on my face. I tried to clean myself up as best I could. I used rough brown paper towels to wipe the blood from my neck and arms. My shirt was ruined, but I managed to put it back on anyway, just to feel covered.

Then I left the bathroom.

And I made my way back to the male dorms.

Every corner, every hallway, every student I passed—I didn’t see people anymore. I saw monsters in waiting. Fangs beneath smiles. Claws hidden behind friendly waves. No one could be trusted. Not now.

All the excitement I’d had when I got accepted into Memoville?

Gone.

Burned out and replaced by dread. Bone-deep, soul-level dread.

You’d think—after what I’d just survived—I’d get some time. A break. A chance to process, maybe. But no.

As I turned toward the entrance of the dorm building, I saw her.

The blonde.

That fucking thing wearing the face of a girl.

She was talking to someone—another human. Another freshman. Her voice was syrupy sweet, seductive, hypnotic. Just like when she lured me into the university garden.

Now I’ll never think of it as a garden again.

It’s the garden of horrors.

She turned slightly, as if sensing me. Her face shifted, and for a split second she smiled.

Wide.

Too wide.

Her lips parted, and those gleaming white fangs flashed between them like knives polished with blood.

I didn’t wait to see if she’d come after me.

I bolted.

Faster than I’ve ever run in my life. I didn’t stop to breathe. Didn’t stop to look back. I just ran—through the hall, down the corridor—straight to the dorm room assigned to me.

And found the door locked.

From the inside.

"No, no, no—please," I gasped, banging on it with both fists. "Let me in! Please—just—open the door!"

I didn’t care who was in there. I didn’t care if they were another monster. I just needed a door. A lock. A wall between me and that smile.

After a long second, the door opened.

And I shoved my way inside, slamming it behind me, locking it again—hard.

Only then did I breathe.

The guy inside looked startled. My new roommate, apparently. Tall. Slender. Not bad looking. He opened his mouth to ask something, probably what the hell’s going on?

But I didn’t answer.

I didn’t speak at all.

I just went to the bed, curled up beneath the blanket, and buried myself in the covers like I could bury what happened too.

I didn’t want to talk about it.

I couldn’t.

Talking about it would make it real.

And I needed—desperately—for it to stay what it felt like:

A nightmare.

**********

"Hey... are you alright?"

His voice cut through the silence, low and hesitant. Like he wasn’t sure if he should be asking, or if I’d bite his head off for trying.

But I wasn’t alright.

And I didn’t think I could even begin to explain what was wrong.

I didn’t lift the blanket. Didn’t move.

But I tried.

Tried to give him a warning, at least. Something small.

"I wouldn’t go out if I were you," I muttered, voice muffled against the fabric.

He went quiet for a second. I expected him to laugh it off, call me crazy, or say something smug. Maybe he’d be one of those obnoxious rich kids with a blood fetish or some kind of twisted kink for danger.

But he didn’t.

He actually listened.

I heard his bed creak as he sat down across the room. Then the soft tapping of thumbs on a phone screen.

Some time passed. I don’t know how long.

Then he asked, quietly, "Do you know what’s going on here?"

The question sent a jolt through my stomach. I didn’t move, but my mind started spinning.

Does he know?

Did he see something?

Was he... also a victim?

I peeked out from under the blanket just enough to look at him.

No bruises. No cuts. No haunted look in his eyes. . No fear in his voice, no tremble in his hands.

He didn’t look like someone who had been dragged into the dark and torn apart like I had. But maybe he was smart. Maybe he was just... suspicious.

At least he has a brain, I thought bitterly. If I had one, I wouldn’t have followed that blonde monster masquerading as a soft-spoken girl into my doom.

I didn’t answer his question. I couldn’t. The words stuck in my throat, thick and cold.

Instead, I said what I meant.

"I want to go back home."

It came out small. Broken.

But true.

More true than anything I’d ever said in my life.

He didn’t respond, and I didn’t look to see his face.

Because I’d already made up my mind.

I was staying the night, sure. But come daylight? I was done.

I didn’t care about the tuition I paid. I didn’t care about the stupid welcome packet, or the dorm assignments, or the excitement I’d felt when I got my acceptance letter. That all felt like it belonged to someone else.

There was no fucking way I was going to stay another day—not one more fucking day—just to be some monster’s amusement.

Or food.

Or worse.

I don’t care what this place offers. I don’t care if it’s prestigious. I don’t care if it was supposed to be the best university for students like me.

I didn’t care that I’d already paid tuition for the entire year. I didn’t care that my parents would probably lose their minds.

No amount of money or dreams of a ’bright future’ was worth being monster food.

I wasn’t going to survive another day here.

Because I’m not a student here anymore.

I’m prey.

And I have to get out before they decide to finish what they started.