First Loss

3am

Dawn ran until her lungs felt like shattered glass, ****—frantic—to find anyone—Chloe, Emi, Sam—anyone with a ribbon she could beg for, steal, or rip from their arm. The world collapsed to a single vanishing line: the gap in the hedge, the rough churn of sand tearing at her soles, the wet rasp of each breath scraping her throat raw. She pictured Andy's face when she'd be eliminated, his eyes hollowing out, the others reaching out for her while she vanished. NO. At first she thought she was being hunted—by what, she couldn't say, just the animal certainty of something closing in, unseen but there, muffled by the suffocating press of walls and branches that seemed to reach for her. But with each violent turn she made, the only thing stalking her was the acid taste of her own failure.

The night had started as a joke. A test of speed, skill, all the things she'd dominated her entire life—child's play compared to last week's emotional slaughterhouse. But now, with the moon hanging like a butcher's hook, the hedges had multiplied, every path a trap, and Dawn knew with bone-deep certainty her experience at The HH might end here. Sure, Andy had a veto—but would he use it? And if he did, could she then face the woman who would be eliminated next week, knowing Dawn was the reason why Andy couldn’t save her? She clawed at her temple, as if she could physically rip out the panic flooding her skull. How much time had passed since she'd lost her ribbon? Three minutes? Four? Her elimination clock wasn't just ticking—it was a guillotine blade. She couldn't go home. Not yet. Not like this.

When she hit the next bend, she crashed to a halt—not from exhaustion, but from the need to think or die. She doubled over, hands braced on trembling knees, dragging oxygen into starving lungs. The world spun violently. There was nothing but the bikini plastered to her skin, the phantom pressure of the ribbon now gone from her arm, and the knowledge that somewhere, a timer was counting down to her execution.

Except—her hand came up empty again, fingertips scraping raw skin as if checking one more time might conjure the ribbon from nothing.

Dawn's stomach didn't just lurch—it tried to crawl up her throat. She checked again, thumb scraping along her wrist, then the other arm, knowing it was pointless. The ribbon was gone, and soon, she would be eliminated.

NO.

She shut her eyes, tried to picture the moment she'd last had it, and instead got a blinding rush of shame. She'd stepped on the trap, too slow to notice it. There was a hiss, a faint perfume of flowers, and then her head had gone light. Not dizzy, exactly—more like her blood had been replaced with something fizzy, and every nerve ending in her body was trying to report in at once.

She'd never felt anything like it. Her knees buckled, thighs pressed together so hard she thought she might crack bone. The sensation built and built, waves cresting just under the skin, until she couldn't stand. It was like lightning striking between her legs, pleasure so intense it bordered on pain, radiating outward until her fingertips tingled and her toes curled involuntarily in her shoes.

Her mind went completely blank, wiped clean of everything but the overwhelming ecstasy coursing through her. She fell into the hedge, vision smearing with tears and color, and bit her own fist to keep from making a sound. Even that was too much; she slumped to the ground, riding the aftershocks, mouth open and panting, each pulse of pleasure erasing another fragment of thought until there was nothing left but raw sensation.

That was the last thing she remembered for a while. The next thing, she was waking up in the dirt, cheek pressed to a root, and the ribbon was missing from her arm. She couldn't even remember who had stolen it, only that there were footprints in the soil, the signs of someone fleeting, light on her feet. The humiliation was thick, sticky, impossible to scrub off. And what hurt the most was that whoever it had been, she hadn’t even had the courage to show herself, or to give Dawn a fair chance. She couldn’t imagine which of the other women would do that. Not even Erin, not even Norah.

Back in the present, she stood up, bracing herself against the hedge. The world spun, then resolved. She made herself breathe, slow and even, then **** her legs to keep moving.

There had to be someone else in here. Chloe, or Liesa, or Marissa—any of them would do. If she could find another contestant, she could rip the ribbon from their bicep while they fled, or steal it during a moment of distraction. The alternative clawed at her insides: elimination, transformation, her body warping into something monstrous while Andy watched, unable to save her from whatever freakish form awaited losers in this game.

She turned left at the next fork, then right, counting her steps and trying to build a mental map. The branches pressed close, grabbing her hair and skin. At every intersection she saw the same thing: no footprints, no sign of passage, just the indifferent tangle of greenery and moonlight. The silence was absolute, broken only by her own sobbing breath.

She stopped again, this time pressing her back to the hedge and sliding down until she was squatting in the dirt. She checked her arm for the ribbon, as if it might have materialized when she wasn’t looking. Still gone.

There was no clock in the maze, but suddenly she noticed something on her arm. A countdown had appeared, ticking down to zero. 2:00. 1:59. She could see the time passing, thickening around her ankles. She pictured the others, wondering where they were, why she was not finding anybody, and for a moment she hated every one of them. Then the anger guttered, leaving only the shame and fear behind.

She covered her face with her hands. Hot tears slipped through her fingers, tracing her cheeks. For once, she didn’t try to stop them.

“Is anyone there?” she called, voice cracking on the last syllable. The echo died instantly. Nothing. She was alone.

Dawn pressed her knuckles to her mouth, holding back another sob. She counted to ten, then twenty, then thirty, trying to slow her heart. There had to be a way out, some loophole she hadn’t seen. She wasn’t ready to lose—not like this, not because she’d been weak, or slow, or too stupid to watch her step.

She wiped her face with the back of her hand and stood, knees trembling. The path ahead was just more hedge, more dirt. She walked, less a run now than a stagger, but she kept moving.

After the next turn, she realized she was lost—not just in the maze, but in a deeper way, like she'd misplaced herself somewhere along the way and didn't know how to ask for help. Her legs finally gave out. She collapsed against the hedge, its branches digging into her shoulder blades as she slid down to the ground. Her chest heaved with the first sob, then another, until tears streamed unchecked down her face. The countdown ticked on her arms. One minute thirty. She pressed her palms against her eyes, shoulders shaking, knowing it was almost over.

When her voice finally came back, she screamed for help again, even though she knew it was useless.

The sound was small, swallowed by the endless green. All that came back was the memory of the pleasure, the shame, and the dark.

She barely noticed the sound at first—just the shush of leaves, the muffled snap of a shoe on dry dirt. Then it got louder, closer, and Dawn scrambled to her feet, wiping her cheeks with the heel of her hand. She braced for another trap, another humiliation, but what turned the corner was not danger.

At first, the figure looked like a hallucination—part of the maze’s cruel design, or maybe just the punch-drunk product of despair. But as the shivering silhouette advanced, Dawn recognized the height, the body shape, the rigid posture and the tight, decisive steps. Norah’s ponytail had come undone, strands sticking to her sweat-slicked cheeks, framing her face in a wild, electric mess. The ribbon on her arm—slick, nearly glowing in the moonlight—was so red it looked like it might bleed.

For a moment neither of them spoke. Dawn waited, half-expecting Norah to mock her, to remind her of the rules, to finish what the trap and the maze and Dawn’s own fuckups had started. But instead, Norah only looked at her with an expression so stripped-down it was almost naked: surprise, pity, and something else—something resembling fear—set in stark relief by the ferocious blue-black of the night.

“You look like hell,” Norah said. The words themselves were a jab, but her delivery was so lacking in venom it almost sounded like a compliment.

Dawn tried to conjure up a comeback. Instead, her bottom lip trembled and her eyes went hot again. 1:00. She made a hideous, undignified snort-laugh. “You’re not wrong,” she managed. Her voice was a mess of snot and self-loathing.

Norah canted her head, arms crossed over her chest in a way that might have looked defensive in another context. Here, it just made her look smaller. The classic Norah pose—a shield against the world, and against needing anything from it. But her voice was kind. “What happened, Dawn?”

Dawn stood there, knuckles pressed white to her thighs, then remembered her original mission. “I’m out,” she croaked. “Ribbon’s gone. Trap got me. Someone took it while I was…” She looked away, mouth working as if she could chew up her words and swallow the shame. “I think I’m done.”

Norah didn’t move, didn’t even blink. The wind picked up, catching the loose ends of the ribbon on her arm and flicking it against her bare skin. There was a silence—the tented, taut kind that only happens when two people know they’re about to cross a line that can’t be uncrossed. “Fuck. Dawn…”

“Arabella said we get five minutes after losing it,” Dawn said, her voice small. “But I have a minute left.” She lifted her gaze, fixed it on Norah’s mouth. “I can’t even keep track. I thought I could steal one, or maybe just make it to the end, but… I was just running. I couldn’t find anyone. And then—” She stopped, breath catching, and pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes to screw the tears back in.

Norah licked her lips. “Anyone else out there?”

“I haven’t seen anybody. Feels like I’m the only one in this entire maze.” Dawn tried to laugh again, but it came out bent and sad. “Figures, right?”

Norah's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, just a small fracture in her usual armor. She took a step forward, close enough that Dawn could smell the vanilla and smoke of her shampoo, the sharp tang of sweat beneath. Norah's eyes, usually hard as river stones, softened at the edges as they moved from the ground to Dawn's arm, lingering on the bare patch of skin where the ribbon had been. Her fingers reached out, trembling slightly, then fell away before making contact, as if touching Dawn's loss might make it real.

"Was it Emi?" Norah asked, her voice deliberately flat, though something in her throat caught on the name.

Dawn shook her head. "I don’t think so, but I didn't see who. I just... woke up, and it was gone."

Norah's jaw worked side to side, and she blinked rapidly, looking up at the maze walls. "That sucks," she finally said. "I'm sorry." The words emerged softer than she'd intended, genuine in a way that seemed to surprise even her.

For a long minute, they stared at each other. Dawn fought the urge to look away first. She was braced for Norah to leave her, but Norah's eyes kept searching Dawn's face, as if memorizing it. Then Norah inhaled—sharp, decisive—her shoulders squaring like someone about to jump from a great height, and did something that made absolutely no sense.

She untied the knot at her own bicep. The ribbon slid free, trailing down her arm in a single, smooth motion. She held it between thumb and forefinger, then extended it to Dawn, palm up, like she was offering a peace pipe or a live grenade.

"Here," Norah said, voice rougher than Dawn had ever heard it, and thrust the ribbon out in front of her like a confession. She kept her arm rigid, the silk trembling between her fingers, as if the act of giving nearly undid her.

Dawn could only stare at it, blinking through the blurring haze of tears and exhaustion. Her mind rejected what Norah was doing, refused to let the possibility resolve into reality. "What? No—No, I can't—" Dawn's words tumbled out, pitiful, limp. She made no move to take the ribbon. She didn’t dare.

Norah rolled her jaw, then glanced away, only for her eyes to snap back, the compulsion to see this through stronger than any need for comfort. "Why not?" Norah challenged, trying for her usual edge and missing it by a mile. "I've been bottom of the damn polls for two weeks." Her voice cracked, a hairline fracture in her armor. "If I get cut, it's because people want me gone anyway. But you—" Here, Norah hesitated, something thick and invisible plugging up her throat. Dawn felt the words even though Norah never finished them, as if they hung in the air, too loaded to be said out loud. "Just take it," Norah added, and her hand jerked forward, the gesture almost angry.

For the briefest instant, the two of them just stood there—Dawn, all brittle nerves and shaking breath; Norah, rigid and straining, barely able to meet Dawn’s gaze. The tension between them felt alive, like a third person, like electricity threading through their locked eyes and open wounds.

But Dawn remained rooted, knees locked, back pressed against the hedge as if it might swallow her whole. The shame of needing this, of being so profoundly helpless, made her cheeks burn hotter than any arousal or humiliation from earlier in the maze. She shook her head, tried to speak, but the only thing that came out was a strangled, "You don't have to—"

"Jesus, Dawn," Norah snapped, but instead of anger there was a sad sort of impatience in her voice, the tone of someone who had already rehearsed her own sacrifice in secret, over and over, and found it wanting but inevitable. Norah’s eyes were watery now, and she blinked rapidly, as if staving off her own breakdown by sheer will. "You're not the first person who ever got screwed over," she said, each word landing like a fist. "You're just the only one who still thinks there's some point in playing fair." Norah let out a brittle laugh, but it sounded like glass shattering. "It's honestly kind of adorable."

This time, Dawn almost smiled. It was a reflex, a muscle memory from the Before, before everything had gotten so sharp and serious. But her mouth was too busy trembling.

Norah stepped closer, and Dawn could feel the heat radiating from her, the wild heartbeat telegraphed through the air. "If you lose this, you're out," Dawn managed, the words so faint they seemed to dissipate before reaching Norah’s ear.

Norah shrugged, but her whole body was stiff, coiled—a snake ready to strike or flee. "Maybe I want to be out," she said, too fast, too brittle. The lie hung in the air, unfinished but understood. "You want to be eliminated here, in this maze, or do you want a fighting chance?"

Dawn didn't answer. Instead, she looked at Norah's hands—at the way the ribbon seemed to pulse between her fingers like a live vein, at the way Norah's knuckles turned white. She reached for it, and as soon as her fingers brushed the silk, something flickered between them—a flash of static, a passing surge of heat and meaning.

Then Norah let go. The ribbon coiled in Dawn’s hand, light and impossibly soft, almost weightless. But as she wrapped it once, twice around her own bicep, Dawn felt it transform. The red bled outward, leaking into the air, before fading into a dazzling yellow, then a molten gold. The color grew warmer and richer with each heartbeat, until it seemed to glow from within, a thread of sunlight in the night. She felt a pulse in the silk, like a heartbeat that wasn’t hers.

Norah watched the change, her eyes softening. It was the only time Dawn had seen her look gentle. Norah’s mouth twisted, and she made a noise—half laugh, half sigh. "Figures," she said, voice so quiet Dawn almost didn’t hear it. "Even the magic likes you better." Then she looked away quickly, as if embarrassed.

Dawn stood frozen, staring at the ribbon—the evidence of her own failure transmuted by someone else’s loss into something beautiful and damning. She tried to speak—tried to thank Norah, or apologize, or at least promise she’d make this mean something—but the words caught, thick and inarticulate. They were both so bad at this.

Norah surprised her again by stepping forward, so close Dawn could see the tiny goosebumps on her forearm. She reached out, paused, and then put her hand gently—tentatively—on Dawn’s shoulder, as if she were petting a wild animal. "Go," Norah whispered, her voice unrecognizable in its softness. "Get to the end. I'll take care of myself." She squeezed once, then let go, her hand dropping away before Dawn could react.

Dawn wanted to hug her, or at least say something true and raw, but Norah was already turning. Her shoulders squared, her head high, she strode back down the corridor of hedges, into the moon-glazed dark. Just before she vanished, Dawn glimpsed the glimmer of a tear tracking down Norah’s cheek.

Dawn stared at the ribbon—her new lifeline, her second chance—knowing there was no way she could ever repay what she’d just been given. Not to Norah, not to herself.

For a moment, she let the tears come. They were different now—not the cold panic of before, but something more complicated, a mixture of grief and gratitude and awe at how much kindness could hurt when you didn’t think you deserved it.

She closed her eyes, sucked in a breath, and then she ran.

Liesa staggered to a halt at the intersection, her knuckles white on the hedge wall. The world rocked gently, as if the whole maze were a cruise ship and she the lone seasick passenger. Every inch of skin ached with want. She could barely understand where she was, or where she was going. She pressed her forehead to the rough leaves, fighting for a breath that didn’t taste of sweat or sex or the artificial orange blossom that drifted through every corridor.

Her hair clung to her face in damp spirals. She blinked twice, trying to chase the blur from her eyes, but all she managed was to paint her vision with new colors—everything was sharp and soft at once, a migraine made of flowers and heat.

Every time she moved, the air against her skin was an open-palmed slap. She pressed her thighs together, hoping to will away the throbbing between her legs. Instead, the pressure set off another spike, so intense she whimpered. The urge to drop to the ground, rub herself raw until the world stopped pulsing, was nearly overwhelming. But the disgust that followed—hot, stinging, shameful—was almost as bad.

She breathed through her nose, shallow and quick. There was a taste on her tongue she hated, thick and animal. She tried to focus on the map she’d drawn in her head, but it was like trying to read through a pane of steamed-up glass.

Every step forward rubbed the fabric of her bikini against her, and every rub left her weaker. The transformation’s curse: the less she wore, the higher her arousal. She could barely think. The only way out was forward, and every second she spent standing still was another second of her own body betraying her.

She pawed at her own breasts, pinching the nipples. The sharpness was grounding, barely. For a moment, it worked—her head cleared, just enough for her to remember why she was here, who she was supposed to be. She exhaled, letting the air shudder through her lips, and straightened.

Her nipples were visible through the top, two dark coins pressed tight by fabric. If she’d seen herself in a mirror, she would have screamed, or maybe laughed at the sight. As it was, she kept her arms tight to her chest, walked fast, and prayed nobody would see.

She tried to think of Andy, or of Sam, or anyone who could make the humiliation bearable. But all she got was memory: the way Sam had laughed with her the night before, their hips bumping in the elevator; the slow, steady way Andy watched her mouth when she talked, as if every word was edible. She bit down on the thought, tried to turn it into anger, but her body wouldn’t listen.

“Godverdomme,” she hissed. The word tasted old, sour, and comforting.

With a final, shuddering breath, Liesa peeled herself off the hedge and **** her legs to move. The world rocked, and she nearly lost her balance. She pressed forward anyway, eyes glassy, mind a slurry of desire and hate.

If there was a way out, she’d find it. If not, she’d crawl.

The maze didn’t care either way.

Sam barely rounded the next curve before she heard the scream. Not a scream-scream—more of a cracked, **** shout, the kind that left you raw for hours after. “Help! Please!” It was Dawn, unmistakable, and Sam’s whole body went cold before she even finished processing the sound.

She started running. The world telescoped down to hedge and dirt and the pounding of her heart. Another turn, and another, and then—right before she hit the next fork—she saw the wall. It hadn’t been there before: just a split second ago, she’d glimpsed a clear path where the hedge now grew thick and solid, as if someone had slammed a leafy door right in her face.

She hit the new wall with her open hand, felt the give and flex of wet branches, and nearly threw her shoulder into it. But the thing was fused, alive, and it would have taken an axe to get through. She pulled her arm back, stared for a second, then smacked the wall again, palm stinging.

“Fuck!” she hissed, more at herself than the maze. She considered trying to climb over, but the top was strung with barbed stems—real ones, sharp enough to draw blood. For a second, she thought of Andy, wondered what he would do, then shook her head.

“Dawn!” she yelled, as loud as she could. She waited, breath caught, but heard nothing back.

No time, she thought. There was no time, and standing here like a dumbass wouldn’t help. She ran a hand over her face, wiped away the sweat, and **** herself to take two calm breaths.

She listened, tried to pinpoint Dawn’s voice again. Nothing. The walls soaked up every sound.

She pressed on, the memory of Dawn’s panic hanging behind her eyes like a warning flare. She could almost see the other girl—small, terrified, moving through the maze like a rabbit with hawks overhead. Sam clenched her jaw. No one was going to be picked off today, not if she could help it.

She took the next right, then a left, counting her steps, marking each fork. The maze shifted again, but she kept her bearings. If she couldn’t get to Dawn, she’d find a way around. Or maybe get ahead. She’d outsmarted bigger puzzles than this.

Sam wiped her palms on her thighs, then grinned, tight and feral. “Okay,” she muttered. “If that’s how you want to play.” She charged forward, not looking back, not letting the maze or the fear in her chest slow her down.

Dawn’s voice haunted the next three turns, and the sound only sharpened Sam’s resolve.

Marissa and Erin moved as a unit, no words necessary. The rhythm of their pace—Erin a half-step ahead, Marissa matching stride—was the product of three elimination rounds and a shared disdain for the challenge’s theatricality. They’d mapped the maze as they went, logging every left turn and dead end with silent, mutual precision.

The trap, when it hit, was nearly beautiful. A fat, gold-veined blossom detonated overhead, showering both of them with a cloud of glittering pollen. Marissa ducked too late; the fine dust coated her face, hair, and open neckline in seconds. She coughed once, felt an instant warmth crawl up her cheeks, down her throat, and into her chest.

“Oh, hell,” she said, voice hoarse and thinner than she liked.

Erin didn’t hesitate. She clamped a hand around Marissa’s upper arm, steadying her as the world did a slow, syrupy tilt. “God, Riss, remind me not to ever take you on a hike. You good?” Erin asked, not letting go.

“Fine,” Marissa lied. The ache between her thighs was familiar and distracting, but she fought to ignore it. She brushed pollen from her cleavage with quick, efficient swipes, but the particles only stuck to her skin, as if magnetized.

Erin grinned, and for a split second, the edge of her mouth said everything: amusement, concern, the old competitive spark. “You’re not fine,” Erin said. “You look like a tomato.”

Marissa glared, but couldn’t muster any heat. “If you don’t want to get dosed, you shouldn’t stand so close.”

Erin laughed, rich and unbothered, then steered Marissa into a patch of indirect light where the air was clearer. “You gonna make it, Riss?”

Marissa blinked the haze away. “Don’t call me that,” she said, but the effect was lost when her breath caught halfway through. Erin gave her a sidelong look, the kind that said: I know exactly what’s happening, and I’m not judging you for it.

They pressed on, the corridor narrowing until they had to walk single file. Marissa concentrated on the soles of Erin’s shoes, on the sway of the other woman’s hips, anything but the pressure building in her own body. Every time she touched her chest to brush away pollen, her breasts seemed more sensitive, more exposed.

At the next turn, they heard footsteps behind them—fast, confident, not even trying to be stealthy. Both froze. Erin’s hand went to the small of Marissa’s back, an automatic shield.

“Friend or foe?” Erin said, voice pitched low.

A figure rounded the corner, blue-tinged hair wild, eyes wide and on the alert. Sam. She saw them, paused, then immediately scanned their arms for ribbons. Satisfied, she let her shoulders drop a fraction, but her fists stayed clenched at her sides.

“What’s going on?” Sam asked, glancing from Marissa to Erin and back.

“Still in play,” Erin replied. “You?”

Sam shrugged, running a hand through her hair. “Took the west loop, ran into three dead ends and a wall that tried to eat my top. Heard Dawn somewhere back there, but…” She looked at Marissa, eyebrows up. “You okay?”

Marissa rolled her eyes, tried to affect clinical detachment. “Aphrodisiac pollen,” she said, gesturing to the lingering gold dust on her skin. “I’ll manage.”

Sam’s mouth twitched, like she was holding back a laugh. “Classic. This place never misses a beat.”

Erin stepped forward, putting herself in front of Marissa by half an inch. “You hear from Claire?”

Marissa took a breath, steadier now. “She wants us to band together. No backstabbing. We keep the ribbons on, don’t steal, and don’t make it easy for the game.”

Erin nodded, as if this confirmed her own suspicions. “Strength in numbers,” she said, then offered Sam her forearm as a gesture of truce.

Sam hesitated, then tapped it with her own. “Fine by me. Let’s get out before the next glitter bomb, yeah?”

They fell in line, Marissa in the middle, Erin and Sam on either side. The tension from moments before evaporated, replaced by an easy, practiced coordination. At each intersection, Erin watched the shadows, Sam kept an ear out for movement, and Marissa mapped the path in her mind, logging every pollen trap and fork in the route.

They moved faster, now. The corridor narrowed, then opened again. There was a brief flash of sunlight, a promise of an exit, and all three picked up the pace. For a second, the air tasted of freedom—until the next corner, when a new wall sprouted, slicing the corridor in two.

This one moved, withdrawing when they pulled back, cutting through the corridor when they approached. Marissa saw the puzzle instantly: a pressure plate, or something much like it. Maybe more than one. She pointed. “We have to step carefully. If we do it right, the wall retracts.”

Erin snorted. “And if not?”

Marissa smiled, a little wickedly. “The pollen resets.”

Sam laughed, loud and sharp. “No offense, but I’d rather not spend the rest of my day horny and useless.”

They lined up. Marissa calculated, Erin double-checked, and Sam was the first to test the theory. The wall groaned, then retracted with a sigh. They high-fived, unspoken relief in the gesture.

Three steps later, they were back in sunlight. The maze sprawled before them, but the air was clean and the way forward was clear—at least for now.

They looked at each other—Sam’s blue hair wild, Erin’s bikini barely containing her breasts, Marissa’s face still dusted gold—and grinned. For the first time, the challenge didn’t feel like a trap, but a game they could actually win.

They moved on, together.