Page 1 of Make Them Bleed
Prologue
ELIJAH
I’ve been waiting ages for this exact moment. Arby Kate. My obsession. My fascination. My hardcore, heart-pounding crush. She doesn’t know me, of course. Why would she? I’ve only seen her in person once, and even then, she didn’t see me. I was buried somewhere deep in the crowd at the local bookshop, craning my neck just to catch a glimpse of her as she walked gracefully by, ready to sign copies of her latest bestseller. She was dazzling, and I fell instantly, hopelessly, irrevocably in love.
Now, finally, she's about to go live on her channel. Today, she’s revealing her new tour dates, and there’s no way I’m missing out. This time, I’ll be there, front and center, ready to introduce myself. Ready to finally meet her properly, ready for her to actually see me.
My friends—okay, fine, they're not exactly friends, more like the bullies who took every opportunity to make my high school life miserable—tell me I should “get a life.” Move on, grow up. But they don't get it. They don't understand Arby’s magic, her brightness, how she effortlessly lights up every screen sheappears on. They don’t realize how profoundly she’s changed my life simply by existing.
But high school is over now, and soon I’ll be heading off to college in the fall. Not just any college, either. Saint Pierce State University, the same college Arby Kate attends. Did I plan it? You bet I did. It certainly didn’t hurt that I’m a certified genius who could’ve gotten into any school I wanted. But there was only one choice, really—the one school that held the promise of being close to her.
I glance at my Mac screen as it flickers to life, and my stomach flutters nervously. I log onto Arby’s YouTube channel, counting down the minutes. Only fifteen minutes left until her sweet, bubbly voice floods my speakers, her vibrant pink ponytails bouncing cheerfully, and that impossibly bright smile illuminates everything.
God, I love her.
My obsession with Arby began last year when I was a senior in high school. She went viral on TikTok, spinning around in a fluffy pink tutu, laughing as if the whole world was a joyful place. Sure, there are thousands of women dancing and shaking their asses online, but Arby was different. Special. Her energy was contagious, her joy genuine. Every time she looked into the camera, it felt like she was reaching out directly to me, looking into my eyes, searching deep within my soul. And each time, my heart whispered the same undeniable truth.
She’s mine. She just doesn’t know it yet.
I grab the box of Kleenex from across the room, and set it closer to my computer screen. The lotion sits nearby, and I consider myself ready. Ready to watch Arby Kate dance on screen. Readyfor her to announce her tour dates, and ready to jerk off to the fantasy of her.
I double check that my bedroom door is locked. Don’t need my mother walking in on me mid-stroke.
I dim the lights, letting the glow from the monitor light my room. I smile at the screen, waiting for Arby’s face to fill my screen.
And then, finally, the moment I’ve been desperately waiting for arrives.
My screen lights up, and there she is—Arby Kate—but instantly my heart stutters with confusion. Whoa. She looks…different. Her trademark bubblegum-pink ponytails are gone, replaced with a muted shade of blonde that almost blends into the background behind her. It’s as if the brightness she usually radiates has dimmed, overshadowed by something heavy. Something sad.
My pulse quickens as I lean closer to the screen, taking in every detail. She still flashes her usual smile, wide and perfectly rehearsed, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Those beautiful eyes. Beneath the expertly applied mascara and soft pastel eyeshadow, I see it—an unmistakable trace of exhaustion, worry, sadness. It’s subtle, but I can tell. Something’s wrong. Something she’s desperately trying to hide.
“Hi everyone!” Arby greets cheerfully, waving enthusiastically at the camera as she always does. Her voice is bubbly, familiar, reassuring. “I’m Arby Kate, and I can’t wait to tell you all the things,”she giggles softly and does a little twirl, her skirt swirling around her thighs. “And I especially can’t wait to show you some new dance moves!”
I should feel ecstatic, overjoyed even. After all, watching Arby dance is my favorite pastime. But an uneasy knot forms deep in my stomach. I can’t shake the feeling that she’s not herself—that something’s off beneath that carefully constructed mask of happiness. It bothers me more than it probably should.
Arby smoothly transitions into her typical script, smiling brightly while she thanks her various sponsors, and I roll my eyes with a low grunt of annoyance. Most of her sponsors are obnoxious, especially the local energy drink company that plastered their neon-colored logo all over town. I tried it once, just because she recommended it, and it tasted like overly-sweetened chemicals. Not to mention the awful commercials that seemed targeted more at hyperactive children than adults. Arby deserves better.
As she launches into her upcoming tour dates, I quickly unlock my phone and pull up my calendar app. I can’t miss seeing her again. Not this time. My fingers hover over the screen, ready to block off every date she announces, determined to secure my spot—front and center, exactly where she’ll finally see me.
She laughs at her own jokes as she lists off cities and venues, and the sound sends warmth blossoming in my chest. Despite my growing concern, the familiar charm she effortlessly exudes still captivates me. And when she pauses to shake her hips playfully, my breath catches, my heart hammering violently against my ribs.
God, she’s gorgeous. Even now, even with sadness shadowing her eyes, Arby Kate is the most mesmerizing woman I've ever seen. I lean even closer, pressing a finger to the screen, wishing I could reach through the pixels and comfort her somehow. Because whatever it is that's hurting her, I need to fix it.
And if someone hurt her? Well, I'll fix them too.
“And I have a special surprise this year,” Arby announces brightly, her smile lighting up my screen as she leans toward the camera conspiratorially. “My sister, Juno Kate, will be attending a few of my upcoming signings with me!” Her voice lifts enthusiastically, eyes sparkling with affection. “I’m sure most of you already know Juno—she hosts that amazing podcast and talks non-stop about scary movies.” Arby gives a playful eye-roll before grinning again. “Seriously, she never shuts up about it. If horror’s your thing, give her a listen at the link pinned in the comments.”
I lean back slightly, processing the new information. I know all about Arby’s sister, Juno. I’ve listened to her podcast several times, more out of curiosity than genuine interest. Sure, Juno is attractive too—long dark hair, smoky eyes, a rebellious edge to her personality—but compared to Arby? She might as well fade into the background. They’re like complete opposites, night and day. Arby is light and joy wrapped in pink glitter, while Juno is shadow and storm clouds, sultry and mysterious. But I have to admit, despite myself, I do share one important thing with Juno—we both despise cheap horror flicks that rely on excessive gore. Psychological thrillers are where it’s at, with their slow-burn tension and clever twists that crawl beneath your skin and linger in your thoughts long after the credits roll.
The music suddenly shifts, transitioning into something upbeat and vibrant. Arby immediately responds, moving gracefully into her routine. Her hips sway hypnotically, and my entire body flushes hot.Showtime. I scoot forward eagerly in my chair, eyes glued to her every move. My pulse quickens, breath hitching as she dances, each shimmy and shake turning mythoughts indecent, until I’m aching, already hard, and reaching instinctively toward my lotion.
But before I can grab it, something strange flickers at the edge of my screen. Is that... a unicorn mask? What the hell?
I jolt upright, adrenaline spiking as five men silently enter through the back area of Arby’s brightly decorated studio. My heart pounds erratically in my chest, hammering painfully against my ribs. They're dressed casually—dark hoodies, jeans, heavy boots—but each one wears an unsettling unicorn mask. My stomach twists uneasily.
“Behind you,” I whisper urgently, panic seizing me. “Arby, behind you.”
But Arby’s eyes are closed, oblivious as she dances joyfully, lost in the music. She hasn’t noticed them at all. The chat on the livestream explodes into chaos, a frantic wall of comments racing across the screen:
