CHAPTER 162: AIRPORT

LUCAS POV

"You know you can’t run away," were the first words uttered by the cab driver as soon as I slid into the back seat and told him to take me to the airport.

My spine stiffened.

Was he one of them?

Was he sent to stop me?

"I don’t care. Take me to the airport," I said, gripping the strap of my backpack like it could tether me to safety.

The driver looked at me through the rearview mirror for a second too long. Then, without another word, he nodded and started the car. My hand clenched the strap of my bag so hard I thought I’d crack the fabric. The engine gave a tired rumble, and the vehicle lurched forward.

He was human. I could feel it. There was no unnatural perfection to his features, no eerie calm in his expression, no freezing air surrounding him like the others. Just a man, probably in his fifties, with deep lines on his face and tired, weather-worn eyes that had seen too much. Maybe that was why I trusted him.

I didn’t look back at the gates of Memoville University. I didn’t want to.

If I saw them again—those cold iron gates, those Gothic towers shrouded by mist, those damned windows with watchers behind them—I might break. I might turn around and scream, or run into traffic just to escape the memories crawling under my skin.

The cab’s tires hummed against the road as we drove into the waking town. The sun had just begun to rise, spilling soft golden light over the tree-lined avenues. Everything looked so normal—quaint houses, a couple of people jogging, birds chirping in the distance. Nothing like the nightmare that festered behind Memoville’s gates.

"Are you from around here?" I asked, mostly just to hear a human voice again.

The cab driver chuckled, the sound low and bitter. "Let’s just say I’ve lived here long enough to know you don’t get to leave."

My stomach dropped. "You... you know about them?"

He snorted. "Of course I do. And I’d bet a month’s pay that’s why you’re trying to run back to whatever country you came from."

I nodded slowly, even though he wasn’t looking at me. "That obvious, huh?"

"Kid," he said with a weary tone, "I’ve seen your kind before. Fresh meat. Every year. You all show up bright-eyed and hopeful. Then you find out the truth and start clawing at the doors, begging to leave."

"Will they... will they let me go?" I asked, hating how small my voice sounded.

"Maybe," he said. "If they’re bored. If they’ve fed enough for now. Or maybe they’ll let you think you’re leaving... then pull you right back in."

That last part made my skin crawl. My fingers dug into the fabric of my bag until my knuckles turned white.

"How... how do you survive here?" I asked.

The driver gave a bitter laugh, one that sounded like it came from the depths of someone who’d seen too much.

"It’s all about picking your lesser evil," he said. "You either become a foodie to the vamps... or a loyal sex tool to the wolves." If you’re lucky, you’ll end up with one who doesn’t rip you to shreds in a fit of hunger or heat."

Every word slammed into my mind like iron bars in a cage. His voice, once calm, turned matter-of-fact—like he was telling me the options were either to be eaten slowly or used.

I gagged at the thought. "That’s survival?"

"That’s life here, kid. You want to live? You don’t fight the monsters. You choose one, and pray they keep you around long enough to die of old age."

I fell silent.

What could I say to that?

My mind raced back to that girl in the garden—the predator hiding behind a gorgeous smile. The way her fangs pierced me. The horrifying mix of pain and arousal I hadn’t asked for, hadn’t wanted. Then those two men—those... wolves? The way they touched me, played with me like I was something they owned. Like I was nothing but a toy.

And now this man, casually talking about choosing the lesser evil like it was a college major.

There was no place for innocence here.

After a few more minutes, the trees gave way to wide roads. Civilization. Hope.

And then... the airport.

He pulled up just outside the departure gates. The building loomed before me like a cathedral, bathed in the golden morning light. I had never loved the sun more than I did in that exact moment.

The cab driver didn’t turn around, didn’t even look at me.

"There you go, kid," he said. "Go try your luck. Maybe you’ll be one of the few who actually make it out. If not..." He paused, then exhaled. "Just remember what I told you. Find the lesser evil, and try to survive."

I opened the door. The crisp morning air hit me like a splash of water, and I breathed in deep—air that didn’t reek of blood or secrets.

"Thanks," I murmured, barely able to get the word out.

But by the time I stepped out and shut the door, the cab was already pulling away, disappearing into the early sunlit streets like a ghost.

I turned back to face the airport.

Now all I had to do was get on a plane and leave this nightmare behind.

Easier said than done.

*****

Inside the airport, the smell of coffee and luggage straps felt overpoweringly foreign—almost unreal after being locked inside a nightmare for so long. I tried to steady myself, trying to hold onto every part of this place that said "freedom," even though I’d not escaped yet.

Gate A32 polarizes between flashy ads and sugary mall food stalls. Families chase each other. Business travelers clack heels against glass floors. There’s laughter. Noise. Normal life, moving forward. It felt like something sacred.

I approached the counter—but I was shaking. My eyes still reddened. My voice cracked when I said goodbye to the Memoville nightmare. The agent looked at me closely, but speechless—possibly sensing how fragile I was. I produced my passport, ID, boarding card. No issue.

When I made it through security—no searches, no questions—I almost collapsed. The metal detectors beeped and flashed as I walked through, but no alarms. No one stopped me. They just let me go.

On the other side, I could’ve dropped to my knees and wept. Instead, I steadied myself and walked, step by step, toward the gate’s waiting area.

Somewhere, deep in my mind, a part of me screamed: He told me I wouldn’t make it.The professors wouldn’t let me go.It’s a sham.

But here I was.

Airport lighting is harsh. White. Unforgiving.

It felt safe.

People moved like clockwork — dragging suitcases, sipping overpriced coffee, checking their phones. It felt normal. And after everything I’d survived, normal was divine. I clung to it like it could erase the smell of blood and the sting of teeth.

I sat at the gate. Gate A3. Final boarding in 30 minutes.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, I let myself breathe.

Then the speakers crackled.

"Attention all passengers. Due to an unexpected security alert, all outbound flights are temporarily canceled. We apologize for the inconvenience and ask you to remain in your seats for further updates."

I didn’t process it at first. I blinked, looking around.

People groaned, some stood up, checking their phones. One girl rolled her eyes and muttered something about always choosing the "cursed airline."

I just... froze.

No. No, no, no. This can’t be happening.

This had to be a prank. Or weather. Or something explainable. Something human. Right?

But that voice in my head—the one that survived the garden, the hallway, the night of monsters—was already screaming again.

He told me I wouldn’t make it. He told me.

My palms started sweating. My legs refused to move. My backpack strap was digging into my shoulder, but I couldn’t make myself shift.

Then the screen above the gate flickered.

It glitched for half a second—then displayed:

ALL FLIGHTS: CANCELLED

Reason: SYSTEM MAINTENANCE

Next Update: UNKNOWN

Unknown?

The word hit me like a punch in the gut.

I stood, stumbling slightly, and made my way to the nearest airport attendant.

"Excuse me," I said, trying to sound calm, "is there a time frame? For the system maintenance?"

She gave me a practiced, sterile smile. Too wide. Too bright.

"I’m sorry, sir. We’re waiting on clearance. Please return to your gate."

Return? Like a dog?

I backed away, nearly knocking into an older man who grunted in annoyance.

I could feel it again—that crawling feeling on my neck. That instinct. Like eyes were tracking me, even here.

I turned in slow, careful increments, scanning the crowd.

That’s when I saw him.

A man in a dark gray uniform. Not TSA. Not security. Just... standing by the corner vending machine, hands behind his back.

And he was staring at me.

Not blinking.

His face... was too symmetrical. Too smooth.

I blinked, and he was gone.

I started to panic. I turned back toward the gate—no sign of the cheerful gate agent anymore. The desk was empty.

My heart thudded in my ears.

I pulled out my phone to call home. The signal bar danced, then disappeared. "No Service."

Of course. Of fucking course.

The cab driver’s words came back, bone-deep:

"You don’t get to go."

"Pick the lesser evil."

"Try your luck."

And I had.

And luck? It laughed in my face.

I wasn’t out.

Not even close.

I looked down at the tile floor, shaking.

My escape... had never been real.