Page 18 of Stream & Scream
The drone captures it all. Every tear, every tremor, every moment of vulnerability that I'm trying so hard to hide. I flip it off with both hands, middle fingers extended toward its unblinking lens, and then I turn and walk deeper into the forest.
Behind me, the mechanical whir follows for a few yards before the drone pulls back to a higher altitude. But I can still feel it watching, still feel the weight of all those invisible eyes judging my performance, rating my fear on a scale of one to viral.
The forest closes around me like a predator's mouth, and I know that somewhere in these trees, someone is hunting. Someone who knows these woods better than any of us ever will.
And they're coming for us.
I adjust my pack and keep walking, because staying still feels like painting a target on my back. The darkness ahead is vast and full of dangers I can't see.
I follow my flashlight beam deeper into the forest, away from the clearing.
I will be the one who's still breathing when the sun comes up on Monday.
And right now, that feels like the longest shot in the world.
One foot in front of the other. One breath at a time. One decision after another.
The forest stretches endlessly ahead, vast and dark.
And somewhere in its depths, death is wearing a human face and carrying cameras to make sure everyone gets a good view.
CHAPTER SIX
Jaxen
Night one
The tree creaks beneath me like it knows what's coming. A black pine, maybe forty feet up, its bark rough beneath my gloves. Resin-stained. Cold. Perfect.
I perch motionless in the crook of two thick limbs, surrounded by dense canopy, branches jagged like splintered teeth. The wind whistles, dragging the scent of fear to my nose like perfume. Smoke. Sweat. Metal. Pine needles. The coppery tang of blood just starting to dry on a distant body.
Naomi’s scream echoed around the forest twenty minutes ago.
Not just a scream—a fuck-you-to-God kind of scream. Wet. Shredded. It tore through the trees like a bone saw and split this game wide open. The kind of sound that doesn’t just echo, it infects. Gets under the skin and rots your certainty from the inside out.
Most of them still think it's part of the show. They're clinging to that illusion like it’ll keep their brains from melting down. Running around with false panic, throwing dramatic gasps atthe camera, playing to the feed like good little clout-chasers. But it’s there, beneath the surface—the ones who know. I can feel it radiating off them. That scream didn’t come from a soundboard or a producer’s desk. That was a throat being peeled open mid-beg. That was real.
And now?
Now they’re scattering like insects from a kicked log, but I’m not fooled by all the noise. Some are still acting. Others are waking up. The smart ones, the ones with gut instincts felt that scream in their marrow. They’ve stopped performing.
They’re surviving.
I watch the chaos bloom from above like a god in the branches, one leg hooked around the limb, the tablet balanced in my lap. Every heat signature, every misplaced breath, every snap of a twig below—all mine.
To stalk, to break, and to end.
Around the forest, the contestants are grouping up. Pack mentality. They’re slamming together like broken magnets—rattled, breathless, trying to convince themselves they’re not prey. That they’ve still got some kind of control here.
It’s amusing to watch, but they don’t.
I do.
I thumb through the feed on my tablet, wrist cam signals flickering. Every angle, every whimper, every heartbeat ismine.
Trent—what a fucking dip-shit. Tank-top tucked under his jumpsuit, sweaty blonde curls, arms bigger than his IQ. Loud. Cocky. Chest-puffed like a steroidal peacock. “We gotta stay calm, man! Breathe in, breathe out. This is just a test. A mental game. The producers are fucking with us.”
He does jumping jacks while two girls cry. Actual fucking jumping jacks.
