The First Runner

I mean... I guess it could be worse

📌Chapter Update Notice

This chapter has been edited and rewritten to expand the scene and add more detail. Changes have been made to improve flow, pacing, and character development.

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I stepped forward cautiously, each footfall pressing gently into the cool, springy grass beneath me. The air hit me like a shock—fresh, sharp, and startlingly clean after the metallic staleness of the box. It filled my lungs with a kind of clarity that almost hurt.

I turned slowly, eyes sweeping across the vast open space. Nothing moved. No voices. No footsteps. Just the soft hum of distant insects and the whisper of leaves shifting in the breeze.

The silence wasn't peaceful. It was unnerving—too complete, too intentional.

I was alone. Truly, completely alone.

I wandered aimlessly through the grassy glade, my eyes drawn to the odd mix of structure and wilderness. The buildings looked cobbled together—makeshift but sturdy—pieced from wood planks and scavenged metal, like a world built from whatever could be found and held together with sheer determination.

At the center of it all stood a larger building. With no better plan, I made my way toward it.

Inside, I stepped into a wide, open room. A wooden staircase rose to the second floor, and a few battered shelves clung to the walls like forgotten afterthoughts. The space felt half-abandoned, more like a skeleton of something meant to be useful but never quite finished.

I poked around the shelves, but they were mostly empty—just a few dusty jars and old boxes that looked like they'd been sitting there since the dawn of time. The air was thick with silence, the kind that presses in on your ears. Only the faint buzz of insects and the occasional groan of the building shifting broke the stillness.

Determined not to leave without seeing more, I turned toward the stairs. The wooden steps looked questionable at best—just rickety enough to make me hesitate—but they held my weight with only a few dramatic creaks.

At the top, a narrow hallway stretched out in front of me, lined with a dozen identical closed doors. I picked one at random and pushed it open. Inside was a small, bare room: a simple bed, a shelf, and nothing else.

I tried another. And another. Each one was the same. Copy-pasted rooms with no personality, no hint of life. It was like walking through a hotel built for ghosts.

Deciding to see more of the strange place I'd landed in, I stepped out of the central building and let my eyes scan the open clearing. The grass was too green, the silence too complete—like the world here had never been touched. The way the light fell through the gaps in the trees at the edge reminded me of something from a picture book—a forest glade, peaceful and undisturbed. It didn't fit the towering walls or the creeping dread in my chest, but the name stuck.

The Glade, I thought. Might as well call it something.

Nearby was another building, smaller than the one I'd woken up in. I stepped inside. Two rows of beds lined the walls, perfectly made, like they were waiting for someone. But there was no dust. No scent of people. Just... emptiness. Like it had been set up for a group that never arrived.

I backed out quickly and made my way toward what looked like a barn. It leaned slightly to one side, its wooden panels silvered with age. The doors hung half open. I pushed one gently, and it creaked like it hadn't been touched in years.

Inside, hay was scattered across the floor, yellow and dry. Tools lined the wall—some knives, rusted and dull. A ladder led to a loft above, but I didn't bother. There was no sign of life. Not even the usual cobwebs.