Page 32 of Make Them Bleed
“Accurate,” I say.
Render rolls in next—quiet, bearded, hummingbird-nervous, and a camera bag that probably holds more than the GDP of a small nation. Render doesn’t do long hellos. He grabs the Millard Fillmore mask, tapping it. He looks at me, and says, “Audio?”
“I’ve got bone-conduction earpieces and a push-to-talk channel. Ozzy’s bringing socials.”
“Ozzy?” Render asks.
“Friend of a friend,” I say. “Real name is Ozborne, but he goes by Ozzy because he can impersonate a brand rep, a lighting tech, or a paid ‘creator liaison’ with equal conviction. He’s our chameleon.”
On cue, my phone buzzes with a text:
Ozzy: I’m downstairs. Parking is trash. Bring me a president who doesn’t look like he bites.
I grin and jog down to let him in. Ozzy is a study in controlled chaos: bearded, nose ring, black blazer over a HOLO-BURST tee he thrifted for authenticity. He takes in the masks, selects Chester A. Arthur, and slides it over his head like he was born with mutton-chops. “Hot,” he pronounces through the rubber, sliding his vocoder in place.
Juno meets us at the loft at seven-thirty, already in her chosen armor: black-ripped jeans, plain white tee, and a hoodie. Her black boots could break hearts or kneecaps. When the squad sees her, there’s a beat of stunned silence. I feel weirdly possessive and absurdly proud.
“Team,” I say, modulator engaged behind Ghostface. “This is—” I stop myself beforeJunoleaves my mouth. “—our client.” I turn to Juno. “Crew names only tonight.”
She nods, amused and serious all at once. “Then call me…Final Girl.”
Gage throws both hands up. “On brand.”
We run the plan in the loft while Ozzy tapes tiny mics under our collars and Gage checks battery levels.
“We’re only doing the after party, obviously,” I say, pointing to the Hotel Delphine map. “Arthur and I go in early. He’ll flirt his way across the check-in table and pull a couple of spare lanyards. Polk and Hayes, you work the main floor. Post by the sponsor booth and record anything off-script. Fillmore, you’re our eye in the sky—balcony shots, zoom, capture entrances and exits. Final Girl”—I meet Juno’s gaze, my voice softening despite the mask—“you stick with me. We don’t separate, not even for ‘just a minute.’”
She rolls her eyes again but her mouth softens. “Yes, Dad.”
“I can be your daddy if it gets you to follow protocols,” Ozzy mutters, and Knight smacks the back of his head.
My jaw tightens as the rest of the crew laughs.
Render tosses us hotel-branded pins he yanked from a swag box last week. “If anyone asks, you’re micro-influencers with a combined reach of ‘big vibes.’ Especially Polk. Polk screams big vibes.”
Gage, in Polk, does a gentle body-builder curtsy. “Thank you for seeing me.”
We pile into two cars. Ozzy and Render’s because those are the only ones Juno wouldn’t recognize. The city flares neon as we snake toward downtown: marquis lights, river reflections, the Delphine rising like a crystal set piece. The entry is a circus—step-and-repeat banners, a DJ under a chrome arch, a wall of canned HOLO-BURST arranged in a pixelated skull. Influencers preen; the founding members glide through like wedding party royalty.
Render spots a lanyard table, and in a stealth-like move scoops up enough for all of us.
Game on.
“Remember,” I tell the team over the channel. “We’re not here to get content. We’re here to eavesdrop. Final Girl and I will peel off when the after party doors open. Meet at Stairwell C if anything goes sideways.”
“Copy,” Gage murmurs.
“Copy,” Ozzy echoes, already filming a “walk-and-talk” that looks real enough for any Instagram story.
The public launch is all flash: projected lightning, brand slogans, a hype video that pretends caffeine is a personality. The CEO, Van Benton—chin like a shovel—announces a partnership with a pro gamer, the crowd roars, champagne sprays. I watch the founding members instead: who they lean toward, who they avoid. Twice, a silver-haired VC in a dove-gray suit glances at the side doors, as if waiting for someone who’s late. Gracewood, maybe. My jaw tightens.
Juno sticks close, eyes alert, posture deceptively relaxed. When her gaze lands on a HOLO-BURST rep with a familiar smirk, she squeezes my forearm—a silentthere, that one. I log the face.
When the velvet rope at Ballroom C parts, we drift with the herd. The theme shift is immediate: public razzle becomes private decadence. “Neon Noir” means black velvet couches under ultraviolet, servers in LED bowties carrying trays of liquid sugar, and a DJ in a half-mask spinning a remix that sounds like a migraine feels. The masks—half the room in them—turn the scene into a masquerade shot through a cyberpunk filter.
We split. Ozzy moves slowly toward the VIP bar. Gage loiters by a cluster of founders pretending to admire the ice sculpture. Render becomes a shadow on the balcony rail, his camera winking like a distant star. Knight positions himself at a service door, ready to slip where staff slip.
I keep Juno to my left, one hand hovering at the small of her back without touching, every sense tuned to her. She laughs once, too brightly, and I lean in.
