Page 55 of Stream & Scream
He knows I mean it.
I thumb the comm off. The sudden quiet is relieving.
Blood buys silence. I’ve learned that. The right throat opened at the right time and suddenly everyone remembers I’m not replaceable.
I look down at Liv again. The bruises are still fresh, deep purple and angry where the ties bit into her wrists. Marks that scream what I already know—I was here. I’m still here. I’ll be here when everyone else is gone.
She twitches; a small, involuntary sound climbs out of her throat and dies. I check her pulse without touching, watching the hollow at the base of her throat. Steady enough. Dehydration’s the bigger threat. She’s barely drunk since the hunt began.
A crow sounds off twice to the east and the wind shifts a hair. I step back into the oak’s deeper shade and pull the tablet from my vest.
The screen is spiderwebbed but still works. One press and the drone grid wakes. I send a false ping three ridgelines away, a decoy trail, and watch as three drones peel off to chase it. That buys us a few hours of quiet as long as they don’t notice. I drag a fourth drone off its circuit and park it in a sunbeam to bleed its battery dry and cut its feed. Less eyes in the sky.
I stow the tablet and let my hand rest on the rifle slung across my back. Check the knife. Check the sidearm. The pack on my hip clinks—water tabs, gauze, paracord, a flare I’ll never waste. Every piece where it belongs.
The hum comes low at first. A wasp in the distance, whining closer. I tilt my head, watching the tree line split as the drone drifts in, red light blinking like it thinks it owns the night.
“Hunter.”
Its speaker cracks, Milo’s voice emanating into the air. “Cut your comm again and I’ll have you extracted. Replaced. Don’t fucking test me.”
I let out laugh, quiet and sharp. The kind that cuts but doesn’t carry. “Extract me? With who, Milo? One of your clipboard-swinging pussies in headsets? You think any of those fucks could carry this show without pissing themselves on the first night?”
“You’re not untouchable,” he snaps.
“The fuck I’m not,” I murmur, grinning. “You can swap meat, but you can’t swap the fear. You can’t fake the way I cut, the way I make them scream. You try to put some other asshole in my slot and the audience will smell the fraud before he even touches one of them.”
Janice cuts in, voice as bitter as the fucking ash she’s inhaling. “You’re stalling. We need a body. Deliver or we’ll be forced to take action.”
I tilt my head toward the hovering lens, letting the grin spread wider. “Cut it. Then watch your precious ratings bleed the fuck out. Watch your sponsors scatter. See how long your empire lasts without me propelling it forward.”
There’s a pause, tight enough to snap. Then a third voice slithers in, softer, coaxing. “The viewers are engaged, Jaxen. But they’re waiting for closure. For the arc. Give them an ending.”
“The hunt is the arc. The ending is when I fucking say it is. Until then? Sit your asses down, sip your overpriced lattes, and shut the fuck up.”
The drone hums above, lens blinking red, but they don’t reply. They never do when they know I’m right.
And here’s the fucking truth they’ll never get through their skulls—I don’t give a shit what it costs. Time. Blood. The last broken fragments of whatever’s left of my soul. I’m dragging her out of this nightmare if I have to stack bodies in the tree line. She’s mine now. That’s not love. That’s not mercy. That’s the truth.
The wind shifts. The crow shuts up, and that's my cue. I move, making a wide loop to the west. I string the line low, ankle height—first trip wire. Ten meters on, another, this one tighter. It won’t stop anyone tailing me, won’t even slow them down much, but it will fuck with their rhythm. Steal a step, maybe second, and that’s all I need.
They want me to be predictable. Boxed and fucking leashed like an obedient mutt.
Fuck that.
This is my hunt. My forest. My girl.
Back at the root, she hasn’t moved. Her chest still rises in shallow movements. Sweat beads in the hollow of her collarbone. I wet a pad with my canteen, leaving it beside her head. If she wakes alone, she’ll drink. If she wakes up with me, I’ll give it to her myself.
I squat with my back against the oak. Sun cuts through the canopy in sharp slants. Wrong hour for a sweep, but they’ll force one if they can’t feed their advertisers. Let them. I’ve got patience they’ll never match.
The memories of the kills spool behind my eyes when I let the grip slip. Cody screaming. Chase’s skull breaking. Sierra’s mascara streaking with blood. Gwen’s green eyes turning glassas ART burned black across cedar. No shame. No pride. Just receipts. Proof I bought this hour. Bought her safety.
Get her out. That’s what I have to do.
My truck’s still buried under mud and brush, deep in the trees where no camera can sniff it out. I put it there weeks ago. Contingency. Emergency exit if the game went sideways. Always planned for myself, but I never planned on carrying someone else out with me.
Doesn’t matter. It’s our fucking exit now.
