The Mating Run by Leeka

In His Eyes: Executioner
Zeke's POV
Pain ripples through me, a searing current that lances down my spine as the bat,
adorned with rusted nails, connects with a brutal force.
My lips release a wild and unrestrained howl, its echoes resounding through the
forest like a mournful cry for the pain pulsating within me. In the air, the mingling
scent of blood, both mine and theirs, lingers, intensifying the raw intensity of the
brutal dance happening in the moonlit clearing.
I snarl, my teeth exposed in a menacing display, as defiance blazes in my eyes.
The bat-wielder stands before me, his face contorted into a twisted grin, savoring
the suffering he has unleashed. However, I am not one to back down easily. A
surge of wild anger propels me towards him, my unsheathed claws a testament
to my transformation into a creature of darkness, instinctively fighting for survival.
The bat descends again, a malevolent arc seeking to crush bone and sinew.
I dodge, a dance of evasion that defies the pain radiating from my back. The
forest becomes a shadowy arena, where the clash of wills and weapons echoes
through the night.
My growl is guttural, a symphony of defiance that punctuates the darkness.
Momentarily taken aback by my resilience, the bat-wielder tightens his grip on
the weapon, preparing for another strike. But I have the advantage of speed. In
response, I swiftly counter with a retaliatory strike, my claws slicing through the
air. The smell of fear permeates the atmosphere around him, intensifying my
determination.
In the midst of our brutal dance, a flash of movement catches my eye. The
machete-bearer, silent and stoic, advances with lethal intent. My senses, honed
by years of survival, alert me to the impending threat.
With a predator's instinct, I twist away from the bat-wielder, narrowly avoiding a
collision with the looming machete,
The forest watches, its towering trees casting long shadows over the chaotic
scene below, Waves of pain shoot through me, a constant reminder of the
merciless beating from the bat. Despite everything, the flame inside me
continues to rage.
Undeterred by my evasion, the machete—bearer lunges with calculated precision,
the gleam of the blade reflecting in their determined eyes. Without thinking, I
unleashed a swift kick directly towards his stomach. As the blow lands, the
machete—bearer stumbles back, momentarily dazed and struggling to regain their
balance. It is a fleeting advantage, a temporary edge that I pursue with
unrestrained determination.
I seize the opportunity, swift and decisive. With a lightning—quick motion, I disarm
him, wrenching the machete from his grasp. The balance of power shifts, a
pendulum swinging in my favor. The machete, now in my hands, becomes an
extension of my feral prowess.
The bat-wielder regains his composure, eyes narrowing with a mixture of rage
and desperation. He lunges again, but this time, I am ready. The machete meets
the bat in a clash of metal and wood, a primal symphony that reverberates
through the clearing.
The forest stands silently, bearing witness to our fierce struggle, a battlefield
where destiny teeters on the edge. The pungent scent of blood lingers in the air,
a stark reminder of the sacrifices necessary for survival. I snarl, a creature of the
night, my canines bared as I battle against the encroaching darkness.
With each swing of the bat-wielder, the earth shook beneath me, the force of
their attacks becoming increasingly frenetic. With each parry, the piercing sound
of claws scraping against wood echoes through the air, adding to the clash of
primal forces. With each swing of the machete, I feel its weight and power as it
effortlessly cuts through the thick vegetation, creating a symphony of echoes that
bounce off the trees.
The machete-bearer, recovering from the kick, reenters the fray. The forest
seems to exhale a collective breath, as if anticipating the resolution that looms on
the horizon. I stand my ground, a lone figure against the backdrop of shadows.
The machete gleams in the moonlight, a silent testament to the ferocity of our
struggle. The bat-wielder, sensing the tide turning, grows more erratic in his
attacks.
My lips part and a roar escapes, reverberating through the forest. With each
strike, the bat-wielder’s resolve weakens, his movements becoming sluggish
under the weight of my relentless onslaught. With a swift swing, the machete
connects, delivering a decisive strike that sends him sprawling to the ground.
The machete—bearer attacks, a desperate bid to salvage the waning battle. I
meet each strike with a calculated parry, claws and machete colliding in a
symphony of chaos. The scent of blood intensifies, a potent cocktail of fear and
determination saturating the air.
With each clash, the forest seems to pulse with an otherworldly energy. The
machete becomes an extension of my will, a tool of survival wielded against the
encroaching darkness. The bat-wielder, still sprawled on the ground, watches
with helpless fury.
In a final, desperate gambit, the machete—bearer lunges, sweat dripping from his
brow. With a swift maneuver, I counter, the clash of claws and machete echoing
through the air, sealing his fate. The machete connects with a resounding thud,
causing him to stagger backwards.
The forest falls into a hushed silence, with only the sound of my labored breaths
breaking the stillness. I stand amidst the aftermath, machete in hand, a lone
figure in the sea of shadows. The bat-wielder and machete-bearer lie defeated,
their forms silent witnesses to the unforgiving dance of survival.
The scent of blood still hangs heavy in the air, a visceral testament to the price
paid for victory. I take a moment to breathe, the adrenaline—fueled haze gradually
dissipating. The clearing, once fraught with tension, now holds a solemn stillness.
In the moonlight, the machete gleams, its blade marked by the remnants of past
conflicts. As I lower it, my fingers loosen their grip, and I feel the tension in my
muscles slowly easing away. In the silence that follows, my ears strain to pick up
any sound coming from the cabin. The unmistakable odor of blood fills the air,
beckoning me towards the heart of darkness.
At the beginning of the Mating Run, it's a different kind of game for me.
The Alpha, with his eyes colder than the winter night, hands me a list of names.
No words needed; I get it. These are the ones I have to eliminate. It's a silent
pact, an understanding forged in the shadows of our pack.
Why? No need to ask.
The Alpha doesn’t waste words, and I don’t waste questions. These names,
they're not just random. They're problems, thorns in the pack’s side that need
plucking.
Punishments in the realm of the Alpha are lacking in strength and fail to yield the
intended outcomes. The Mating Run transforms into a macabre celebration,
where the ground becomes stained with blood and the pack erupts in cheers,
rejoicing the end of their troubles.
As I scan the list, a montage of faces rushes through my thoughts. Among them.
are familiar faces, some are complete strangers, but each person has earned
their spot in this somber game of chance. Their existence deemed a threat, their
demise. sanctioned by the Alpha’s decree.
The Mating Run isn’t just about finding a mate; it's a calculated purge, a culling of
those deemed undesirable. It's a brutal dance, a macabre waltz where I play the
executioner to the twisted applause of the Alpha.
Each name on the list carries a story, a narrative of rebellion, defiance, or
perhaps just unfortunate circumstance. But in the Alpha’s eyes, they're all
obstacles, challenges that must be eradicated for the pack’s prosperity.
I don't revel in this role, but I've learned not to question the Alpha’s motives, no
matter how unconventional they may be. Survival depends on obedience, an
unquestioning and steadfast commitment. The Mating Run is the Alpha’s way of
asserting dominance, of maintaining order in our chaotic pack.
It's a test of my loyalty, a measure of one’s allegiance to the pack. It's a challenge
that will determine who truly stands by their pack.
Like a master puppeteer, the Alpha skillfully tugs the strings, and I obediently
dance to his orchestration.
The list in my hands is more than a compilation of names; it's a testament to the
Alpha’s authority. To question it is to sow seeds of doubt that threaten to tear our
pack apart. So, I accept the burden, shoulders heavy with the weight of
inevitability.
1 kill for the Alpha, that much I can admit.
The Alpha, a cunning puppeteer, manipulates the strings of my destiny. He
dangles the allure of power like a forbidden fruit, and I, entrapped in the vines of
obligation, find myself succumbing to the macabre rhythm of the Mating Run.
If 1 were to kill, the throne of the Alpha could be mine — an irresistible temptation
that casts a dark cloud over the atrocities I commit.
As I navigate the labyrinth of the Alpha’s commands, each life extinguished
becomes a stepping stone to an uncertain future. The pack, oblivious to the
machinations at play, celebrates the Mating Run as a festival of unity.
Little do they know that beneath the veneer of camaraderie lies a darker truth — a
truth I am forced to confront with every strike of my lethal blows.
ears.
The Alphas voice, like a ghostly whisper carried by the wind, echoes in my
“Zeke,” he tells me, “The road to leadership is constructed upon the bodies of
those considered disposable. There is no alternative but to make this sacrifice,
no questions asked.”
A cold shiver runs down my spine as I ponder the implications of his words. The
Alpha, a master manipulator, exploits my yearning for purpose, for a place of
significance within the pack.
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) S
The Alpha’s promises are
questionable, leaving me uncertain
about the truth behind his
assurances. Will the towering pile of
lifeless bodies I create truly elevate
me to the coveted position of Alpha?
Could it be that I am nothing more
than a pawn, maneuvered in a wicked
game that eludes my grasp? My
conscience is plagued by uncertainty,
. )
but I dare not question the Alpha’s
motives, for I cannot afford such a
luxury. The content is on
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With each kill, a dissonance grows within me — a conflict between duty and
morality, between blind obedience and the yearning for truth.
And isn’t it simply unfair, no matter how you look at it?
Victor Craft, the Alpha’s privileged son, revels in the warm glow of undeserved
rewards, while I, a mere pawn in the Alpha’s scheme, labor in the dark, my
endeavors lost in the cacophony of the Mating Run.
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Victor, with his silver spoon and
golden path, walks through life
unburdened by the weight of the kills
and sacrifices that mark my journey.
His every step echoes with
entitlement, a stark contrast to the
relentless grind that defines my
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In the relentless pursuit of power, the Alpha’s favoritism becomes an ugly display
of influence.
Why does he reap the fruits of my labor while I, a mere instrument of the Alpha’s
whims, am left with the bitter taste of unfulfilled promises?
The cabin’s door squeaks open, and my scattered thoughts are shattered by the
scene inside. There's this lady, a complete stranger, sitting on the floor, holding
Alina close. My breath catches, the sound of my pounding heartbeat echoing in
the
air.
In the dim light, a glinting knife is pointed threateningly at the delicate throat of
Alina.
The world freezes, only this grim moment matters. The woman, a puppeteer in
this eerie performance, locks eyes with me, her piercing stare cutting through the
darkness.
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3 Z i
In the eerie silence, the woman's
voice cuts through, a sinister whisper
that sends shivers down my spine.
My shoulders sag under the weight
of responsibility, a burden I never
asked for but now carry in this critical
moment. With each passing moment,
the tension in the air becomes more
apparent. The content is on
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“One wrong move, and your mate pays the price in blood.”