Page 2 of Make Them Bleed
Who are those guys?!
Are those unicorn masks part of the show?
Arby look behind you!
WTF is going on?!
“Fuck,” I breathe out shakily, leaning even closer, eyes widening in horror. One of the masked men holds something heavy and metallic. Shit, is that a crowbar? A chill slices down my spine, cold dread pooling in the pit of my stomach. “Arby, my god, turn around!”
In slow motion, as if trapped in a nightmare, one of the men steps forward decisively. He lunges, grabbing Arby roughly bythe arm. Her eyes snap open, wide with shock and fear, and my heart stops.
“Oh my god,” I gasp, scrambling to grab my phone from the desk. My hands shake uncontrollably as I unlock it, fumbling to dial 9-1-1, fingers trembling. But panic surges through me, white-hot and blinding. I don’t know where she is. How can I even tell the police where to go?
On the livestream, Arby tries to wrench herself free, panic painting her beautiful face as the other masked men surround her, closing in. My chest tightens painfully, my vision blurring with helplessness.
“No, no, no,” I whisper desperately, horror choking me as the nightmare unfolds in front of my eyes. “Arby, please, hold on…”
However, my words do nothing to stop the tragedy happening before me. The tallest man, clearly the leader, brings his hand down, cracking the crowbar over her face. Blood splatters. Panic claws at my throat.No. No. No no no no.
The comments ask if this is real, or part of the show, but I know. Ifuckingknow. This is as real as it gets. And I can’t turn away. One by one the men take their turns bludgeoning Arby’s face into an unrecognizable image. An image that’ll haunt me the rest of my days.
They stare at her lifeless body. A chill skates up my spine as the whole world’s gone quiet. One by one they file out, and as the last one leaves he turns toward the camera and lifts his hand, shooting a finger gun at the screen before walking out the door.
What the fuck just happened?
1
Juno
THREE MONTHS LATER
The problem with hunting down murderers on the dark web is that it seriously interferes with my sleep schedule. And worse, my skincare routine. I stare into the mirror, scrutinizing the deep purple crescents beneath my eyes. They're dark enough to have their own gravitational pull at this point. "Juno Kate, influencer extraordinaire," I mumble bitterly. I used to say it proudly, snapping selfies and posting boomerangs of mimosas and avocado toast. Now, saying it feels hollow, even cruel. Ever since Arby was brutally murdered on her livestream, my life feels like a blurred after-image, stuck in perpetual darkness.
It's not just losing Arby—it's losing everything I knew about myself. Followers tripled overnight. New brands offered deals. My inbox exploded with condolences and emails looking for answers. It’s as if the whole world wants an explanation and I’ve got nothing. I rarely even go online anymore.
"Former influencer," I correct myself, squeezing out a pathetic dollop of overpriced eye cream. The bottle promises miracles, claiming it will erase "years of trauma and sleepless nights." Atthis point, I'd settle for a few hours without reliving that horrific livestream.
My chest tightens sharply at the memory. It’s vivid, replaying in high-definition whenever I close my eyes—the five masked figures bursting into Arby's frame, the chaos, her terrified screams. I shake my head violently, willing the images away.
Just as I'm halfway through applying the miracle cream, a loud knock startles me, making me smear the stuff down my cheek. My pulse spikes.
"Juno?"
Relief floods through me, instantly calming the panic. Arrow. Of course. My best friend since elementary school, the boy who shared my crayons and later my secrets. Arrow Finn, the living embodiment of stability in my unraveling world.
"Coming!" I shout, quickly wiping my face clean.
"You promised you wouldn't dive back into conspiracy theories," he calls through the door. He sounds genuinely concerned, which twists my stomach even tighter with guilt.
Taking a deep breath, I plaster on a brave face and open the door. "Hey, Arrow. Missed me?"
He raises an eyebrow, immediately zeroing in on the smudge of cream I missed. "Were you trying some abstract makeup look, or...?"
"Hilarious," I mutter, dabbing at my cheek again. "It's supposed to fix trauma."
He steps inside, his familiar presence comforting yet oddly vulnerable. "Any luck so far?"
"Still traumatized," I joke weakly.
