Page 24 of Make Them Bleed
She tugs her beanie. “Next step?”
“We go back. Run HOLO-BURST’s ownership tree.”
Juno glances at me—mask, hoodie, looming. “You sure you’re not Arrow under there?” Her laugh is half joke, half genuine wonder.
I manage a robotic chuckle. “This Arrow guy your boyfriend?”
“What?” Her eyes widen. “Uh, no no no no no. He’s definitely not.”
“Wow, five no’s. Must be a serious no.”
She laughs lightly. “Sorry, he’s my best friend, and no he’s not my boyfriend.”
The air sizzles between us, and I don’t know what it is, maybe it’s the mask making me feel braver. “So, you’re single then?”
“Um, yeah,” she breathes out. “I guess I am.”
“Good.”
She gives me a mega-watt smile, and I wonder how it’s physically possible to be jealous of myself. “We need to get you a new mask, Hoover.” She pushes against me as we walk down the street.
“C’mon, Herbie here is underrated.” I hail a rideshare on my app.
She snorts as she starts walking. The night air is crisp, carrying distant sirens. With each step, guilt and protectiveness wrestle in my gut. We got useful intel—but I dragged her into a stranger’s yard. Rookie move.
Halfway down the block she stops, and pivots. “Thank you for listening to me, Hoover. Most people treat me like fragile glass.”
I keep my modulator low. “Glass can cut if mishandled. You’re steel, Juno.”
In the sodium streetlight her eyes glisten. She looks like she might step closer, seek comfort, but the rideshare’s headlights swing around the corner, breaking the moment.
We climb in. She stares out the window, fingers worrying the edge of her sleeve. I want to reach over, lace them with mine—to tell her I’m here as Arrow, as Hoover, as whatever she needs. But Hoover can’t act like Arrow. Hoover’s a mission, Arrow’s a man in love.
So I sit, silent, as the city crawls past and neon reflections ripple over the mask’s blank Hoover grin. Tomorrow we’ll tear into HOLO-BURST. Tonight I memorize the exact slope of Juno’s shoulders as she whispers the names of energy-drink moguls under her breath—warrior preparing for battle—unaware heroldest ally is right beside her, wearing history’s most unpopular president as armor.
11
Juno
Bills, like bad jump-scares, never stop coming.
It’s noon, there’s a half-eaten Pop-Tart on my keyboard, and I’m hiding in the bedroom closet—the only spot that doesn’t echo in the apartment now that Arby’s ring-light studio is dark. A plaid comforter hangs behind me as a makeshift sound baffle, and the scent of her vanilla-amber diffuser clings to the wool like a ghost I can almost hug.
I clear my throat, tap the mic, and slip into my cheery “Final Girl Frequency” voice.
“Welcome back, survivors! I’m Juno Kate, your favorite scream-queen analyst, and today we’re unpacking the criminally underratedGrave Encounters II—yes, the found-footage sequel that proves locked psych wards arestilla no-go zone.”
I breeze through thirty minutes of analysis—camera angles, creep-factor metrics, why the possessed janitor deserved an Oscar—and then pivot to the part that pays rent: the sponsor read.
“Before we wrap, huge thanks toSleepRite Weighted Blankets—the only blanket heavy enough to keep you safe when the demons crawl out of your TV at 3 a.m. Use code FINALGIRL for fifteen percent off and free shipping. Because nothing says self-care like a fifty-pound hug that whispers ‘you’re not alone.’”
I hit stop, exhale, and listen to the silence ring in my ears. One edit pass, upload, invoice sent—another week’s groceries secured. Arby would roll her eyes at the hustle, tell me to start a Patreon, but hustling feels like breathing when grief wants to drown you.
By two o’clockI’m parking a borrowed e-scooter in its designated spot, and making sure I return it through the app. I’m outside Saint Pierce Memorial Cemetery, a windswept sprawl of granite angels and lichen-slick headstones. I carry a single daisy in my hands.
Row D, plot 47: Arby Catherine Kate—Beloved Daughter, Sister, Friend. The marble still looks too fresh, too bright against gray Autumn grass. I kneel, brush away stray leaves, and place the daisy in the little bronze vase.
“Hey, star-sister,” I whisper. “Miss me?”
