Actually, I am not a criminal. My track team only breaks into warehouses to free run through them; that’s all. Building endurance is important, and we don’t steal or vandalize anything. Plus, security really should get better locks on their doors. It's like they’re just leaving the door open for people. Ok, maybe we’re criminal-adjacent. What can I say? Oval tracks are boring.

  Tonight, the break-in is a multi-high school competition called “Slasher Run.” There are two teams. The racers and the chasers. The chasers stalk the racers through the half-finished office-forest of abandoned warehouses. While the racers try to escape to the next floor, without turning down one of the many rabbit hole halls and getting lost. Not even Alice wants to deal with this shining example of corporate committee design gone amok. All of it inspired a couple of guys to wear Halloween masks and call the race Slasher Run. Unfortunately, the name stuck. To their credit, the bare pillars, boxes, abandoned office furniture, and scattered tools make a perfect horror movie set.

  To get by the chasers, you can either sneak or run all out. Running all out works when you know where the exit is; otherwise, you just run in circles and are more likely to get captured. If you're caught, they tie you up. Of course the guys decided on that rule, because it’s not creepy at all. Groping gets a well-deserved foot to the groin, on the other hand. The girls decided on that rule, but it probably varies by who does it. You pretty much have to accept the guys are going to grab you and haul you around.

  Someone near me screams. It glues me to the floor, and I pretend to be a statue. Maybe they won’t see me if I stand really still. Nothing to see here, just a six-foot-tall girl pretending to be a womanikin.

  Last year, people brought feather wands to tickle the racers with, and like the masks, it became part of the race. Breaking and entering, free running, and tickle torture. They go together so naturally, don’t they? The word boys seems to explain all of it, though. The boys race is nothing like this. They have to climb ropes and do ninja warrior stuff. In shorts and t-shirts while girls watch them. That doesn’t sound good either. I should focus on not getting caught.

  Certainly, staying completely still will keep them from noticing me. This is the perfect plan, and there are no holes in it whatsoever. Getting caught is not an option this year. The guys discovered I have too many ticklish spots last year.

  My patience pays off when her scream turns to laughter. This is my chance. I inch forward and scan the other end of the massive office, looking for the exit. Seeing the emergency exit sign, I bolt for it. Victory is a flight of stairs away.

  From behind me, someone comes out of their hiding spot. It’s Fran, and she’s hot on my heels and trying to nudge me out of the way. I leap over a table, which slows her. She may be a star track sprinter, but free running isn’t just a hobby in my friend circle; it’s a requirement.

  “You’re losing this race, Fran.”

  “Don’t get cocky, Sam.” She growls and trips me into some boxes.

  A plume of dust and plaster explodes, covering both of us. The dust forms a coating of gross all over me. It’s like slime as it mixes with my sweat. She is going to lose in the most humiliating way I can think of. When I think of one.

  As we reach a pillar, I dodge left, and she goes right. Then I feel in danger. Goosebumps run down my arm from a looming presence.

  Arms wrap around my waist, and I scream. Jared is laughing like an idiot and tossing me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing. Which is saying something since I’m 6’ and weigh over 150 pounds.

  “You’re mine, Fran.” He said.

  He’s the captain of my school’s football team and an unrepentant flirt. Odds are he brought two feather wands. Of course he’s handsome with dark chocolate eyes and sandy blonde hair. Why wouldn’t the universe give him the looks to back up his ego?

  “I’m not Fran, you idiot. Put me down or she’ll win.”

  “Shush.” He shushes me, and I’m slack-jawed, flabbergasted into silence.

  A couple of guys from another school run up. “You caught Fran? Nice going, Jared.”

  He points after Fran. “Sam went that way.”

  Does he really have me confused with Fran, or is he helping me cheat? Whatever is going on, I shut my mouth and keep it shut.

  When they leave, he puts me down but then grabs my hands. I struggle to pull free. There’s no guarantee he’s not going to tie me up.

  Those dark chocolate eyes suck me in, and my breath catches in my throat. Dumb universe, they’re gorgeous up close.

  “Take the north stairs.” He said as he nodded in a northerly direction. I think he’s helping me.

  He still caught me, so I growled my response. “Fine.” A smile forms as he looks to enjoy that.

  Pulling from his grasp, he melts back behind the pillar to wait for the next girl.

  “You look good in those shorts, Sam.” He said.

  Despite helping me, flirting is still his default mode.

  Sprinting to the stairs, I take a moment to catch my breath. To my frustration, the door is blocked by boxes. The smiling delivery logo laughs at me, just like Jared is probably laughing at me. “I’m going to kill him.” Yet, w would he steer me wrong?

  It hits me as I turn to go back. Who delivers orders to an abandoned building? With a kick the boxes fly; they’re empty. “Ha!” They hid the exit.

  Through the exit and running up the stairs, I find it barricaded at the second floor. I'm not getting out that way. Going back down the the stairs go past the first floor to a basement level with access to the warehouse itself..

  Nearing the bottom of the stairs I hop the last few and feel a hot pain on my hip when I land. It causes me to stumble and hit the wall like I’m a klutz. Rubbing the spot, I feel something in the shorts pocket. It’s hot like a hand warmer and about the size of a bank card. I flip it back and forth, and it rapidly cools. Light reflects like metal, and the surface is smooth.

  Why is this in my pocket? I emptied them before the race so my phone wouldn’t get broken. Jared! He must have put this in my pocket. What a creep. This raises too many flags for me. Seriously, who shoves a bank card, or is it a library card, into someone's pocket? What are these markings?

  “Stupid infantile manchild, is shoving your library card into someone's pocket a new player technique?” Grabbing the door handle, it doesn’t budge. My annoyance red lines. I struggle to pull the door open. “I swear, I’m going to tie him up with rope and dangle his perfect hair off an interstate overpass.” Maybe that’s a little too specific. His hair is nice, but maybe not perfect.

  The door jerks open, causing me to almost fall through it. A renewed drive runs through my veins as thoughts of knots and rope lengths dance in my head. The warehouse is large, and I’m almost 50 feet into it when the peculiar nature of it hits me. Lights activate when I cross an invisible threshold, illuminating round pedestal tables that run in long lines.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  I slow my jog and take a closer look. The table's single leg seamlessly rises from the floor. Every single table is similarly designed and has something that looks like rope displayed in it. For an abandoned warehouse, everything is well maintained.

  A table grabs my attention. A transparent rope glints in the passive light. Like molten glass, it snakes and shimmers from an unseen heat. My hand hovers over it, and happy fairies dance along my arm and neck.

  A blaring message appears, saying “Touch at your own risk!” Sending me backwards into another table. Is that a hologram?

  The next table is just as extraordinary. The long coil seems solid in some areas and ghostly in others. A sign says “Dynaphased Rope.”

  Dumbfounded, I advance to the next table. Nuclear Flux Rope.

  The next, Cryptorope rope.

  “Holy rabbit hole batman. This is insane.” Current events worm past the bizarre. “The race! I need to find the exit.” It quickly became apparent this will be easier said than done. This space felt infinite and the other end of the warehouse is further away than any warehouse has a right to be.

  But the glass rope. The thought jumps into my mind and I’m reaching for it again.

  “I wouldn’t touch that.”

  Jerking in a circle I’m back in front of the glass rope. A woman at the next pedestal pulled me out of the stupor that was controlling me. She’s dressed fabulously; it’s literally the only way to describe it. If Fabulous were a clothing line, that’s what she’s wearing.

  “I wasn’t going to.” My hand starts to reach. “Stop, hand; we don’t need the crazy rope.”

  The woman chuckles. “You seem familiar; have we met?”

  “I don’t think so. It would be hard to forget someone with your sense of style.”

  “Thank you, young lady. You seem to be dressed for a physical excursion.”

  “The race!” I’ve got to go; the others will be getting here soon.

  At the end of a row, I find more rows. This space is irrationally large, or I’m going around in circles.

  Returning the way I came, the fabulously dressed woman smirks at me.

  “Lost?”

  “No! Maybe.” That was way too pathetic at the end there.

  She chuckles, but it’s sweet and motherly. “Go to the end of the row, turn left, then right.”

  “Thanks!” I bolt from her and just assume she’s telling me the truth. Who doesn’t trust complete strangers, right?

  This is going to end badly.

  “Don’t forget to say ‘return’ before you open the door.” Her words fade as I increase the distance, but they still come through clear. Say, return before I open the door? This is really going to end badly. I, of all people, shouldn’t just trust people, but she feels familiar.

  After the left, then the right, I run into a door. Handle in hand, I pause. Saying return couldn’t be that big a deal, right?

  “Return.” Just in case.

  Jerking the door, I see the interior of a dilapidated warehouse. Now that’s what I was expecting. Including the wave of nausea-inducing trash oder. Why did I think this run was a good idea?

  The warehouse is huge and surprisingly well lit. It could have easily accommodated fifty trucks. A logistics temple where the god of sorting, categorizing, and shipping blessed its disciples. Now it’s a briar den of junk. Over the years it became a dumping ground, and now it’s a maze of trash.

  Surveying the space, I see a glitter-covered sign with an arrow and the words “exit” on it. Subtle guys.

  The absurdity of a glitter-covered sign slams home the insanity of a warehouse displaying crazy types of rope. That wasn’t real, right? Obviously I turn back and jerk the door open. I find the stairwell, and my breathing restarts with a gulp.

  What? Ok, where did the warehouse of rope go?

  Exhaustion. I must be having exhaustion delusions. Or I hit my head. Just ignore the crazy Sam.

  Running feet echo in the stairwell. Which means I lost my epic lead!

  Knocking over some stuff, I add a couple of obstacles. Fran is first coming out the door. She doesn’t see the obstacles in time and trips over them, hitting the concrete.

  Her bad luck is good luck for Shesho as she vaults over her. She’s my teammate, best friend, and sister from another family, but right now she’s my competition.

  She sees me. “I’m on your tail, Sam!”

  “I’m still in first place!” I laugh at her.

  Shesho’s within swiping distance of me, but I feel the need to show off. There is a 4” by 4” beam that crosses some foamy junk. I cartwheel across it. Four years of gymnastics, all so I can be a showoff. Money well spent. “You’re not beating me on this course, Shesho.”

  Shesho scowls as she wobbles across. “Big words from the loser of the last two 100-meter races.” She jumps and rolls off the foam, keeping my lead slim.

  Running over a piece of fencing, it jangles and pops up in front of me. My shirt gets caught, and I end up dragging a large section of fence.

  It gives Shesho a chance to catch up. She laughs. “Karma served.”

  “Quiet you and help me.” With a tug, I rip some of my shirt free.

  I look down with a huff. The shirt is completely ruined. “Stupid fence.”

  With a tug, she rips the rest of the hanging fabric. “Your shirt seems to be a crop top now.”

  “Thanks, I hadn’t noticed.” The ripped shirt now reveals the long scar that runs, shoulder to waist, down my back.

  I don’t advertise my scar, and I don’t like people seeing it. They always ask how I got it. No epic thrill stories here. Just a bloody and painful punishment at the hands of the people who kept me enslaved. Telling people I was a child slave usually kills any conversation pretty quickly.

  Shesho laughs. “I’ve always got your back. Unless I’m in the lead.” She runs off, forcing me to chase her down.

  Several times Shesho and I hear someone curse when they hit a dead end or laugh as they’re caught. A familiar scream was our friend Cynthia, the third racer from our school relay team.

  The maze is tough to navigate, even knowing our destination. When we turn a corner, it’s a dead end.

  “Wrong turn,” Shesho said.

  “Maybe it was the first right.”

  Going back, we run into Fran. Frozen like idiots, we look at each other, trying to deduce where the other came from. All three of us choose the same route, and it’s chaos as Shesho and I slow Fran down by throwing stuff. When she gets hit, it explodes in baby powder. We’re struggling to breathe while running and laughing hysterically as we go around her.

  “This is disgusting!” She growls like an angry pitbull. She kicks a toaster and hits a tall pile of junk, toppling pooled water onto Shesho and me.

  It mixes with the plaster already all over me, and I want to not have skin anymore. This is so gross.

  Reaching the stairs, we take them two at a time, Shesho in the lead. Then we dash down a hall, nudging each other in the small space. During the jostling, Fran gets knocked into a doorframe and spins into the opposite wall. It gives Shesho and me the chance we need.

  We’re the first to reach the cafeteria. The weather has not been kind to the ceiling because it has mostly collapsed. From here we get to the roof via a wall with ropes for climbing. Shesho and I sprint across the room. Whoever hits the wall right will win.

  All around us, guys crowd and yell. This isn’t the end of the race, so they must be here to watch us climb the wall in running shorts.

  They’re already whistling at Shesho. She seems to tick off all their boxes. In more respectful terms, she’s pretty. Night-black hair, light tan Egyptian skin, and emerald eyes. It’s probably her exotic looks that garner their attention.

  They whistle at me, but I don’t know which boxes I’m ticking off. My height is off-putting to most guys, while others treat me like a novelty. I’m also not a stick like Fran.

  My hair is a unicorn mix of pink and black, my natural hair color. It’s so black, light seems to dim around it. People always tell me my natural color is so pretty. Is it self-confidence? Accidentally spilling all my dad’s hair dyes together and not wanting to waste them? Nope, the reality is I want to stand out from Shesho. That black hair, those emerald eyes—she’s drama personified into human form. I need to add dramatic flair because black hair and soft brown eyes aren’t drama personified. I commented on this once, so now she says I have the most delicious caramel eyes. Can you call eyes delicious?

  I run up the wall and grab the lip, then haul myself to the gravel roof. Shesho bounds, but has to grab the rope. She’s shorter than me and can’t get as long a stride up the wall. My long legs are an advantage, but it seems to get mentioned more than is appropriate. Especially when I wear shorts.

  “Work those legs Sam.” At least they’re predictable.

  I’m on the roof and unleash the speed on the straight-away. The finish line is a heartbeat away. Bragging rights are all mine.

  Chancing a glance back, Fran is pulling over the wall faster than Shesho. That’s completely unacceptable, so I reduce my pace, letting them catch up.

  Shesho moves next to me, and we block Fran. She tries to go left around me and we move. Around Shesho and we move.

  Fire and excitement run through my muscles; it’s down to me and Shesho. My breathing becomes sharp and my throat stings. We’re moving at a full sprint as we swap the mere millimeters that will determine the winner. I can’t believe how fast she can pump her short little legs because she’s making that millimeter harder to maintain.

  She’s going to eke out another win! I decide it’s all or nothing and leap forward across the finish line.

  Shesho sees me, and her eyes go wide as moons. At first I assume she’s shocked at my winning, but then I fall and hit the gravel of the roof. T

  he tar and rocks are like sandpaper on my entire body, and I roll on it three times before stopping.