Vladimir Putin sits rigidly, his eyes cold and calculating, fingers steepled together. Across from him, Volodymyr Zelensky appears tense but defiant, his hands clenched on the armrests of a grand leather chair. The air is thick with unspoken animosity, the ticking of a gilded clock the only sound breaking the silence.
"We both know this can't continue,"
"Then let's settle it,"
A silent agreement forms between the two leaders, the consequences of their decision rippling far beyond the walls of this room.
Masked men in unmarked uniforms prowl the alleyways, their radios crackling with orders. People vanish into waiting vans, their cries muffled by the noise of engines. A sense of dread hangs over the city, every citizen looking over their shoulder, hoping not to be the next taken.
Irina, a schoolteacher, clutches her daughter tightly, watching as her neighbor is dragged away.
"Keep your head down. Don't speak. Don't look at them,"
Inside the enclosure, terrified captives huddle together, their breaths forming clouds in the frigid air. On the other side of the fence, wealthy patrons in camouflage sip brandy and place bets on who will survive the deadly hunt. The sound of a distant horn signals the start, and panic erupts among the captives as the hunt begins.
Dmitri, a former soldier, steels himself and whispers encouragement to the others.
"We move together. We look for weaknesses in the fence. It's our only chance,"
Russian officials gather around a long table, their faces set in grim lines. They toast with crystal glasses, their laughter hollow and forced. The head of the table, Putin, raises his glass, his eyes betraying no emotion.
"These games are necessary. Order must be maintained. Sacrifices are the price of power,"
A younger official, visibly shaken, glances away, unable to meet his leader’s gaze.
The captives, desperate and hunted, turn to primal instincts for survival. Some, driven to madness by fear and hunger, lash out at each other. The line between human and animal blurs, the violence escalating with each passing hour. The hunters, bored by easy kills, demand more spectacle, more blood.
Sasha, once a gentle musician, now bares his teeth at a rival, eyes wild and animalistic.
"This is what they want. But I won't let them break me,"
The lead hunter, armored and arrogant, steps forward, rifle slung casually over his shoulder. A silent standoff ensues, the cold morning air crackling with tension. One by one, the captives refuse to be hunted any longer, standing tall despite their wounds.
"You turned us into animals, but you forgot—animals fight back,"
A final, desperate uprising begins as the line between prey and predator dissolves completely.
