Page 3 of Stream & Scream
They’ll panic.
They’ll beg.
And I’ll cut them down one by one, clean and efficiently. No names. No mercy. They don’t matter.
None of them do.
Except for her.
I can already see the look on her face when the illusion breaks. When the forest turns quiet and she realizes the cameras aren’t just props. That the blood on her boots came from someone real.
When she realizes I’m not a challenge. I’m not a character.
I’m the consequence.
She’s mine, and I don’t let go of shit that belongs to me.
Not until I’ve broken every last piece.
She’s the ending.
The grand fucking finale.
And when the credits roll, I’ll be buried inside her, watching her come undone for the last time.
Because survival isn’t just about outlasting death. It’s about giving in to it. Letting it fuck you open and change you. Liv doesn’t know that yet. But she will.
And when she screams?
It’ll be my name.
Game on,clickbait.
CHAPTER ONE
Olivia
Friday Afternoon. Hours before the game starts.
Istep off the truck and immediately want to crawl back into the hole I came from.
What the hell am I doing here?
The cameras whirl overhead like mechanical vultures, their lenses catching every twitch of nervous energy rippling through the group of contestants. Fifteen people total, including me. All of us dressed in the same ridiculous black tracksuits with that obnoxious green "S&S" logo stamped across our backs. I look down at the polyester nightmare I'm trapped in and have to resist the urge to set it on fire. The fabric feels cheap against my skin, scratchy and suffocating, and the whole ensemble screams "disposable."
Which, considering the circumstances, might be more accurate than I'd like to admit.
The matching white sneakers are the worst part—pristine and gleaming like they expect us to keep them clean while running through a goddamn forest. I already know these shoes are going to be enemy number one. No traction, no support,basically designer death traps masquerading as athletic wear. Even the socks are regulation white, like we're inmates in some twisted prison experiment.
Forest stretches in every direction—thick, ancient trees that swallow both sound and light. There's one dirt road leading back to civilization, and I'm already calculating how long it would take to walk it. Maybe eight miles back to the main highway, assuming I remember the route correctly from the bus ride that brought us here. There’s no visible crew except for the drones buzzing around us like hungry metal insects. Just us, the cameras, and whatever fresh hell waits in those woods.
I remember this morning's briefing clearly—too clearly for my own comfort. We'd all been herded into a sterile conference room that smelled like industrial carpet cleaner. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead while some production assistant with dead eyes read through waivers that should have been red flags the size of Texas.
That's where I learned everyone's names, memorizing faces and details like my life might depend on it. Old habits from a childhood spent moving through foster homes where knowing who to avoid could mean the difference between a quiet night and a trip to the emergency room.
Riley Torres, twenty-four, the kind of guy who probably has protein powder and creatine in his veins instead of blood. All muscles and no brain, the type who thinks flexing counts as a personality trait. Lexie Monroe with her platinum bob and icy gray eyes that suggest she'd step over her own mother for the right camera angle. Tara Nguyen, barely twenty but already carrying herself like she owns the world—or at least expects it to hand her everything she wants.
The names blur together now as I watch them in their natural habitat—Chase Durant running his hands through his surfer hair while explaining his "strategy" to anyone who'lllisten; Emily Cho clutching her backpack like it contains the half million dollar prize; Naomi Blake with her expensive auburn waves and anxious energy.
