Page 6 of Stream & Scream
She moves like she’s done this before. Not the bullshit influencer version—the real thing. Not the cosplay survivalists who cry for their Twitch chat the second a branch snaps. Nah. Liv? She walks like someone who’s beenhunted. Cornered. Taught the hard way that no one’s coming to save her. So she became the thing they all should’ve feared.
Every step she takes isintentional. Efficient. No wasted movement. No fucking panic. Her eyes rake the dark like sheexpectsit to stare back. Like maybe she already knows I’m here, watching. Maybe she feels me—right there at the base of her spine. I bet her skin’s tingling. I bet her pulse is climbing.
But still… she doesn’t run.
She just narrows those pretty little eyes. Sharp, steady, and keeps walking.
Andfuckif that doesn’t make my dick hard.
She’s not going to cry for the cameras or beg for likes. Her descent will be art.
So I reroute the drone, framing it just right. Making sure every fucking second gets captured.
My thumb glides over the trigger clipped to my inside rig—an override toggle jacked from black market military surplus and rewired. One flick, and I own her. Unit Nine—red-eyed, silent,loyal—veers off its assigned arc and locks onto her from above. All visual, all audio, all telemetry now feeds directly to my HUD.
From this point forward, I see what she sees. Every twitch of her fingers. Every shiver she tries to hide. Every half-caught breath she thinks no one hears. If she gets close enough, I’ll even hear that pretty little heart of hers flutter like a rabbit in a snare.
Her pulse belongs to me now.
And when they find out? Oh, they’ll lose it.
The producers. The crew. Milo Vane—the washed-up puppet master in a spray-tan suit who talks like he invented fear. He’ll have a full-blown meltdown. Smash another bottle of imported whiskey. Demand a system sweep.
Because I rewrote the rules, asshole.
Becausesheis the game now.
They won’t get it. They never do. They think this show’s about suspense. About ratings. About pushing limits. But me? I’m not here for the viewers. I’m not here for the payday. The thrill that sends a rush of adrenaline right to my fucking dick.
I’m here forher.
For Liv.
For the twitch of her lashes when she senses something she can’t see. For the silence she clings to when everything else cracks. For the way she doesn’t cry. Doesn’t beg. Doesn’tperform.
She survives.
And that’s the kind of girl I can finally fuckingbreak.
But not yet.
No. This type of masterpiece isn’t something I can rush. This is about control. It’s about stringing her along one heart-pounding second at a time. Until the fear tastes sweet and the chase turns addicting. Until shewantsto be caught.
So let Milo scream.
Let the crew rip out cables and piss themselves trying to rewire the grid.
Let the fans wonder why her feed’s the only one that doesn’t cut to commercial.
Because this isn’t their show anymore.
It’s mine.
And Liv?
She’s the only one on this roster who matters. The rest are extras in her finale.
Well… maybe noteveryone.Milo Vane’s a slippery fuck. He’s got that look—like he’s already seen this show before. Like he remembers Lamal.
