Wang's vision blurred from blood loss and adrenaline. His right side throbbed with every heartbeat—what was left of it. The makeshift tourniquet he'd tied using strips from his own jumpsuit was soaked crimson, but it had slowed the worst of the bleeding.
Barely.
His breathing was ragged, wheezing through grit teeth as he knelt over the hunter's corpse. One arm. That's all he had now. One fucking arm. But he wasn't gonna die here. Not in this goddamn hell-jungle.
He yanked the shotgun off the hunter's back with one hand. It was heavy, but manageable. Old pump-action, scratched all to hell. There were still three shells in the tube. He slung it awkwardly over his shoulder.
Next, the knife. That wicked, curved bastard that had nearly been used to carve him up. Wang snatched it and shoved it into the waistband of his jumpsuit.
"Thanks for the ride, dickhead," he muttered under his breath, spitting blood into the dirt.
He stumbled toward the buggy, using the shotgun stock to prop himself up like a cane. Every step felt like it might be his last—but every second he didn't move was another second some other hunter could roll up and finish the job.
The buggy's engine was still idling.
Lucky break.
Wang collapsed into the driver's seat, teeth clenched so hard his jaw popped. Blood smeared across the wheel as he gripped it with his remaining hand.
He jammed his foot down on the pedal.
The buggy screamed forward, bouncing hard as it tore through underbrush and between trees, the engine roaring like a dying bear. Wang squinted through the spray of dust and wind in his face, wiping blood from his brow with his forearm.
"No more games," he muttered. "No more fucking games."
The forest whipped past. Trees. Rocks. Birds startled into flight.
Then—through the trees—he saw it.
A fence.
Not just wire and poles. This was industrial. Tall, barbed, humming with electricity. Metal stakes reinforced with concrete footing. Signs in a dozen languages all screamed the same thing: WARNING: RESTRICTED PERIMETER – HIGH VOLTAGE.
Beyond it? Open plains. A road. A distant comms tower on a hill.
Civilization.
Freedom.
Wang's heart kicked up in his chest.
But the fence... that was a problem.
He skidded the buggy to a stop about fifteen meters out, eyes scanning along the barrier.
There weren't any gates.
No keypad. No weak points.
He was trapped.
"...Unless."
He reached for the shotgun.
Three shells left.
Wang grinned bitterly, adrenaline giving him just enough juice to ignore the searing pain in his side.
He limped out of the buggy and stumbled toward the fence. His aim was shaky, but he didn't need precision—just brute force.
He leveled the shotgun at the thickest cable where it met the transformer box.
"Fuck you."
BOOM.
The shot blasted a chunk of the metal casing clean off. Sparks flew.
The wires sizzled violently, spitting arcs of blue lightning. Wang pumped the shotgun with a grunt and fired again.
BOOM.
A second shot tore through the lower anchor, shredding the pole and sending part of the fence sagging. Electricity pulsed up the wires and blew out a fuse box with a thunderous POP. One last shell.
He backed up, steadied himself, and fired once more—this time at a brittle connection point along the upper support.
BOOM.
The top cable snapped and whipped backward like a viper, slapping the ground and twitching as it fizzled out.
Wang dropped the shotgun. Steam hissed from the busted fence. Sparks popped weakly in the brush.
He didn't wait.
He climbed back into the buggy and floored the gas.
The wheels spun, spitting dirt before catching traction. The buggy surged forward.
Straight through the hole.
He ducked low as the edges of broken cable whipped past, one of them catching his shoulder and tearing through fabric—but not flesh.
And then—he was out.
Wang burst into the open field beyond, the buggy bouncing violently on uneven grass, the horizon stretching wide with empty roads and blue sky.
He drove for several hundred meters before skidding to a halt, panting, chest heaving.
The jungle—the hunting grounds—was behind him now.
The fence? Gone. Busted open. Silent.
No sirens.
No alarms.
Just wind and freedom.
Wang sat in the buggy, letting the moment wash over him.
He was missing an arm.
He was covered in blood.
He was probably concussed and slowly dying from shock.
But he wasn't dead.
And he wasn't in the fucking game anymore.
He let out a laugh—raspy, wild, disbelieving.
"Holy fuck... I made it."
Then, with shaking fingers, he reached into the buggy's glove box.
There were keys.
A ration bar.
And a map.
Whatever came next, he had options now.
Wang gritted his teeth, shoved the ration in his mouth, and tore it open with the same stubborn fire that had kept him alive.
This was just the beginning.
Q: What would you do next if you were Wang?