Page 24 of Stream & Scream
There's no other way to describe it. Every step feels calculated, measured, designed to avoid making noise that might attract the wrong kind of attention. The forest around me has taken on a quality I've never experienced before—not peaceful or threatening, but expectant. Like it's waiting for what comes next.
I've been walking for over an hour, picking my way carefully through undergrowth that tears at my ridiculous tracksuit and makes every step so much more fucking difficult than it needs to be. The fabric catches on thorns and branches, and I'm starting to understand that these outfits aren't just cheap—they're deliberately impractical. Whoever designed them wanted us to be vulnerable. And cold.
It’s so fucking cold. Without the sun this feels like a frozen hell. And now without a fire it feels infinitely worse. I have to keep moving. I’ll get hypothermia if I don’t.
My wrist camera continues its steady blinking, that red light a constant reminder that my fear is entertainment for millions of strangers. I wonder what they're thinking right now, watching me stumble through the woods like a lost child. Are they rooting for me to survive? Betting on how long I'll last? Taking bets on whether I'll be the next one to scream?
The thought makes me want to rip the device off and throw it as far as I can, but I know that would be suicide. Whatever's hunting us probably uses the cameras to track movement, to choose targets, to plan attacks. Removing it would be like painting a bullseye on my back.
So I keep it on and try to ignore the weight of all those watching eyes.
Every few minutes, I stop and listen. The silence is unnatural.
I'm navigating around a particularly dense thicket when I hear voices ahead—human voices.
I approach carefully, using the undergrowth for cover, and peer into a small clearing where three figures huddle around a pathetic excuse for a campfire. The flames are weak and smoky, throwing just enough light to reveal faces I recognize from this morning's lineup.
Trent Mason sits in the center, his carefully styled hair now messed with twigs and dirt, but his gym-bro confidence apparently intact. Emily Cho crouches to his left, her dark hair hanging in ratted strands around a face that looks pale and frightened in the flickering light. Chase Durant rounds out the group, his surfer-boy charm decidedly dimmed but his mouth still fucking moving.
"—telling you, the key is to stay calm and think strategically," Trent is saying.
"But what about that scream?" Emily asks, her voice small and shaky. "That sounded really real, Trent. Like, genuinely terrifying."
"Sound effects," Chase interrupts, waving a hand dismissively. "High-end production shit. They probably recorded it in a studio somewhere. These reality shows spare no expense when it comes to manufacturing drama."
"Look," Trent says, shifting his position so the camera on his wrist captures his "leadership moment" at the perfect angle, "the smart play here is to stick together. Strength in numbers and safety in groups. These show producers want drama and conflict to make us turn on each other. But if we work as a team?—"
"It's not a team sport," I say, stepping into the circle of firelight.
All three of them jump like they've been electrocuted, hands flying to their chests in identical gestures of startled surprise. Trent recovers first, his smile snapping back into place.
"Jesus, Olivia," he says, laughing with forced casualness. "You scared the shit out of us. How long have you been standing there?"
"Long enough," I reply, not bothering to sit down or make any gesture that suggests I'm planning to join their little survival club. "And long enough to hear you planning to turn this into some kind of group project."
Trent's smile gets broader, more salesman-like. I can practically see him shifting into recruitment mode, adjusting his approach to account for my obvious skepticism.
"Come on," he says, patting the ground beside him like I'm a dog he's calling to heel. "There's safety in numbers. You've got to know that. Whatever's out there—whether it's wild animals, environmental hazards, or just the psychological pressure of being alone in the dark—we're better equipped to handle it as a group."
"Wild animals," I repeat flatly. "Is that what you think killed Naomi?"
The question hangs in the air between us, and I watch their faces carefully for reactions. Emily looks confused and frightened, like she's starting to suspect that maybe the scream wasn't quite as fake as everyone keeps insisting. Chase maintains his dismissive expression, but there's something forced about it now, like he's trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.
Trent's reaction is the most interesting. His smile falters for just a second, and his eyes dart toward the tree line before snapping back to me. There's something there—fear, maybe, or knowledge he doesn't want to share.
"Nobody died, Olivia," he says, but his voice lacks conviction. "This is a TV show. They have safety protocols, medical personnel, and emergency procedures. Nobody actually gets hurt on these things."
"Then explain the blood on her sweater."
Silence. Dead fucking silence.
"You found something?" Emily whispers, and I can hear the terror creeping into her voice.
I describe finding Naomi's torn shirt, the blood, the way it was caught on the tree bark like she'd grabbed it while running or fighting. I watch their faces as I talk, noting the way Chase's cocky expression crumbles, the way Emily's hands start to shake, the way Trent's eyes keep darting toward the shadows beyond our fire.
"That doesn't mean anything," Chase says, but his voice is higher now, strained. "Could be fake blood. Could be from a cut, a scrape. Could be?—"
"Could be from someone getting their throat slashed open," I interrupt. "But sure, let's go with your theory. Much more comforting and denial is the most healthy coping mechanism, right?"
