1‐Layla
“So I did something.” My best friend, Delaney, looked up from her iced coffee, her mouth twitching with mischief. We sat parked under gold streetlights, doors locked, music low. Car hangouts were our ritual. Safe and in secret-spilling territory.
She couldn’t sit still and it wasn’t the coffee. A few months ago, Delaney would’ve dragged me to a bar, flirting with trouble just for the thrill. But her sweet, boring boyfriend, Grant, somehow made her pause.
“What did you do now?” I asked, picturing a new tattoo or her impulse-buying a haunted bookstore she wanted me to help clean up.
“You know The Forewarning? That weird masked men event. Run through the woods, chase-you-down kind of thing we joked about last year?”
“Yeah, it’s been all over my FYP lately. What about it?”
She paused, teeth weighing on her bottom lip while staring at me until the words finally spilled out. “I entered you… into the chase.” Coconut and stale fries nipped at my nose as my brain lagged.
“What?” I blinked at her, not believing she’d actually entered me into something that cost money for a chance to win.
“Layla, that’s not all.” She said softly with her nail between her teeth, “you won.”
The words hit like a punch and a lifeline. I was overlooked for everything—dates, jobs, even text backs. This wouldn’t fix my life, but it was… something.
“Wait, what?”
Delaney dug out her phone, her thumb flicking across the screen. “I entered you since you’ve been so down in the dumps. I didn’t think you’d actually get picked, but look.”
She angled the screen toward me, revealing the acceptance email. I skimmed the message: Selected… one of ten… official runner… Apparently, I, Layla won a spot as one of the final ten women.
“Delaney, I—” My thoughts shuffled like a Rolodex, flipping too fast to land. “Is this real?” I wiped condensation from my cup onto my ripped jeans, the cold biting at my palm.
“I swear on everything,” she said, eyes wide. “They just sent out the acceptance emails… and I have yours.”
“Why me? I’m not doing this. You do it.”
“I can’t. Grant would lose his mind. You think it’d go over well if I ran through the woods getting chased by a masked guy while nine other girls do the same and the night ends with possible ‘adult fun’?” She arched a brow. “I don’t think so.”
She seemed so far away but right next to me. The soft hum of metal music filled the silence, giving weight to the moment. Then she cleared her throat and shifted in her seat. “So… Do you want to check out the application process?” She winced, already bracing for emotional impact.
“Are you serious?” I knew she was but deep down hoped she was messing with me.
“Yes, Layla.”
“Sure, but what if I don’t want to do it?”
“Then fifty thousand women will hate you. And honestly? I’ll be one of them. Besides, you’ve been mopey since that last online date. You really thought it was going somewhe—”
“Yes, yes, I remember. Don’t remind me.” The ice in my drink rattled, shoving my cup back into the holder.
Delaney tapped the link, tilting her phone so we could both watch as the application form loaded. Black letters appear one at a time against a stark white background:
To be caught, you must consent to be seen.
Then a blank application. She pulled the phone back toward her and immediately started filling it out. “Name, Age…” she muttered, typing fast. “Alias—required. What do you want your name to be?” She smirked, one brow cocked.
“I don’t know. How do we even know this is safe?”
“Then you’ll be Kate.” She waved her hand, already typing. “They do background checks and screenings or whatever.” Dismissing my hesitation, she kept going. If texting were in the Olympics, she would take gold.
“Alright. Blah blah blah, health records… let’s get to the good stuff.” The tip of her tongue grazed her lip before slipping back in. “Are you kidding me? This sounds perfect.” she read. “‘The Capture Menu: To help shape your experience, please tell us what you’re hoping to explore or feel during your time in The Forewarning.’”
I scratched a hangnail, eyes glued to her as her gaze flickered like a flame. My gut wrung out the feeling of being wanted and desired. Being chosen enveloped both of them. Delaney knew I needed this. Serial dating wasn’t working, why not have a little fun?
“What are you hoping to experience?” she continued. “Thrill, emotional release, human connection, fantasy fulfillment, or healing.”
“All of it. You know that.” And she did. My own walking diary.
“Preferred Mask Vibe. You may select multiple: silent and dominant, gentle and reverent, primal and aggressive, mysterious and playful, or doesn’t matter—surprise me.” Delaney looked up, waiting for the answer she already knew.
“Primal and aggressive sounds nice.” The truth was, I wasn’t even sure what I wanted anymore with men. I just knew I wanted to stop feeling unwanted. And maybe a little primal aggressiveness would make up for all the losers who left me hanging, both in and out of the bedroom.
“Consent Level. I’m just going to say yes to all. Lord knows you need it.”
She was definitely having more fun with this than I was. All I could think about was whether the milk in this coffee was going to betray me tonight.
“Masked men preference ranking,” she continued. “Rank the participants from one—most preferred, to twelve—least. Full profiles, including known traits and chase styles, are available at the provided link. Shall we?” She didn’t wait for an answer.
A new window popped up, and the surreal experience of me and my best friend picking out a guy for me became a core memory in the making.
I leaned over the console as she slowly swiped through the carousel of men and picked up words through their profiles.
Striker – Motorcycle helmet, lean build, tattoos, leather jacket, dark jeans, and boots.
Whisper – Hollywood movie mask, muscular, in business attire. Sub/Dom.
Gage – Skull mask, beefy, prop guns, black tactical gear.
Smoke – Gas mask…
Honestly, I zoned out when we landed on the page featuring Gage. Thanks to my bad habit of doom-scrolling at night, my entire feed was flooded with Forewarning content and every type of Gage cosplay imaginable. I privately hid a whole thirst trap folder dedicated to masked men who made me salivate. I let Delaney swipe through the rest and return to the application.
“Or,” she said, “you can just say no preference.”
“Gage is number one, Whisper is number two… I guess Smoke after that, but I really don’t care after those three.”
My phone buzzed on the dash, light reflecting in the windshield. Another match. Another text that wanted my body before my name. I didn’t even bother to open the message.
I rolled my eyes as Delaney leaned in, whispering, “Hard limits. Oh, I know your hard limits.” She chuckled, then shifted back to her normal tone. “Hey, what do you want your safe word to be?”
I rubbed the corner of my eye delicately to not smudge my eyeliner. “Safe word?” My voice rose, surprised by this. Was food too cliché? What if I forgot the word mid-panic? God, I was not built for this.
“Yeah. Want me to choose? I’m pretty much living vicariously through you now.”
I couldn’t help but smile—she was living through me. It was as if we swapped roles completely, and honestly… this kind of chaos was right up her alley. Although I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t into being chased through the woods by a masked man, I just wouldn’t have gone through with this.
“Let’s stick to Gage’s theme and go with ‘Delta.’”
“Ooh, I like that. Now...Post-Capture Menu.” She read dramatically: “Evening options: light pampering such as hair brushing or untrained massage, warm bath or shower drawn by masked staff, snack and beverage… or spent alone.”
“Check them all. Except that sad last one.”
She snorted. “I figured. You need this.”
She wasn’t wrong. Even if I attended just for the pampering.
“Overnight options,” she continued, tapping. “I’m going to go ahead and select ‘Sleep in a shared room with your masked partner’ for you.”
“Absolutely.”
“And morning options, do you want breakfast in bed with your guy, or cafe style?”
“Hm... cafe style.” I couldn’t imagine a man tending to me after a night of raw, primal—
“Before you leave,” she cut through my thoughts, “you can also: request an emotional check-in, have a gentle conversation with a licensed staff therapist, get a short massage from a chiropractor, write a letter and burn the paper in the fire pit, or go full silent departure. No morning interaction.”
I exhaled. “That all sounds... amazing.”
“Let’s be real Layla, you deserve the full treatment.” She tapped one last checkbox with flair. “Alright. I’m your emergency contact. You’ll get an envelope in the mail with the next step.”
“When and where is this?” I dropped back into my seat. “Will I need to take time off of work for this?”
“Late September. And this year the event location is here, that’s what made me think to enter for you. It’s always on a Saturday so no need to worry about work.”
“So I can’t say no?”
“No, Layla. You cannot.” Her grin turned smug, but her voice softened. “You need this. I need this. And I want every detail. I want a hundred and ten percent of the information. I want to be a fly on the wall—no, in your brain during this event.”
“You know I can’t run. I’ll fall flat on my face in the first ten seconds.” I paused, then sighed. “But fine. I’ll do it. For you. And maybe... because I’m just tired of feeling invisible.”
“You say that now,” she said, “but you know you want this.”
I did. I really did. There wasn’t a single video I could refrain from watching twice of a woman running through the woods, a steady, slow-paced masked hunk hunting her down because she was the only thing that mattered.
