Page 14 of Stream & Scream
I hear the drone chirp—clip confirmed. Milo will be in post already editing it for playbacks.
Masked Killer Mocks Camera. Psychopath Waves After First Kill.
Good. Let ‘em name me. Let ‘em hashtag me.
But they don’t know the half of it.
The blood on my gloves hasn’t dried yet.
I head east, deeper into the trees. Not toward Liv. Not yet. Let her breathe. Let the story unfold. Fear doesn’t spread through contact, it spreads throughabsence.
More feeds cycle through my interface.
Trent. Loud fucker. He still thinks this is all a prank with a twist ending. He’s rallied three girls and a musician-looking dude with long hair under a split trunk. Probably thinks he’s the lead in some survival drama.
“Stay in pairs. Stay strong. Don’t believe the hype,” Trent preaches to the group.
“It’s all showbiz.”
I drop to a crouch on a ridge above them and pull up the feeds from the nearby drones—high angles, thermal lenses, enough for a full 360 wrap. I’ve got them boxed in and they don’t even know it.
The long-haired guy mutters, “That scream wasn’t fake.”
Smart kid.
“Bro,” Trent claps him hard on the shoulder. “You think a show this big could legally let us die? It’s immersive.”
I almost laugh.
Almost.
Lamal flashes behind my eyes. The cave-in. The dark. The blood.
I reach for my cord and string it low between two trees, setting a tension trap. One misstep and Trent’s gonna eat . But not yet. I want to see if he’ll throw himself in front of the others when the panic spikes.
Spoiler—he won’t.
Guys like him always play hero. Act like they’re the heart of the group, the guiding light in the dark. But when shit hits the fan? He’ll watch every one of them die if it means one more day of protein shakes and mirror selfies.
I flip back to Liv’s feed.
She’s silent, her mouth pressed into a line, eyes sharp. Ten minutes and not a word, but her gaze tracks everything—branches, shadows, airflow. She’s learning. Adapting.Becoming.
She’s gonna be so fucking perfect by the time I’m done with her.
Snap.
A branch behind her. Not me. Not the drones. Just nature breathing.
She spins instantly, back against a rock, stance low. Hands ready.
“Good girl,” I whisper.
Back on the group feed, two contestants start arguing. Another is crying. I split the drone feeds into quadrant view and watch them all at once like a conductor before the crescendo.
The woods hum.
A beat of silence then adistorted, demonic voice crackles through the trees. “FATALITY.”
