Page 51 of Stream & Scream
I start slow. The knife kisses her cheek, steel whispering across skin before I press harder. The edge parts her flesh cleanly, a crimson line blooming down her neck. She shrieks, high and raw, and the drone lens drinks in every drop.
I crouch lower, blade hovering at her thigh. The fabric’s in the way—slick black polyester stretched tight over trembling muscle. I slice once, deliberately, the track pants splitting open with a hiss. Then I cut again, deeper this time, opening her meat beneath, blood pumping hot and fast until it drenches her shoe.
Her scream cracks into desperate sobs. The cam zooms in on the damage.
The chat comes to life, moving too quickly to read.
I shove her face toward the cam. “Not so pretty now, huh?”
She whimpers, shaking her head, ponytail plastered with sweat and mud.
I drag the knife across her stomach next. Not deep enough to kill, but deep enough to make her feel it. Blood soaks her tracksuit. Her mouth opens and closes, her voice failing, but the drones catch every twitch of her lips.
“What’s wrong? Hmm? Is this not what you came here for? You wanted fame,” I hiss, dragging the blade deeper. “Here’s your fucking legacy.”
She collapses to her knees. I haul her back up by the ties, forcing her to stand while she trembles, blood slicking down her front and dripping everywhere.
Then I slit her throat. One sharp, beautifully clean line.
Hot blood erupts in a jet, spraying across the trees, then I yank her forward, dragging her closer to the hovering drone until the lens is coated in red. The feed blurs, streaked crimson, every viewer baptized in her death.
She jerks,convulses, eyes wide, green fading as the last of her screams drown in her blood.
Only then do I shove her down at the tree’s base, slumped, wrist-cam still blinking, her ruined face angled up toward the sky.
“Clout delivered,” I growl, staring into the dripping, blood-smeared drone. “You’re fucking welcome.”
Snap.
A twig breaks behind me.
I don’t freeze. I turn slowly, gun already in my hand.
Riley Torres. Contestant #2. Jet-black curls plastered to his forehead with sweat, brown eyes blown wide. Five-six, or close to it, compact build, pale and trembling, caught halfway between fight and flight.
He saw everything.
I tilt my head, pointing the bloodied blade in his direction. “I remember you.”
He stumbles back, hands twitching like he doesn’t know whether to beg or run. “I-I didn’t?—”
“You tried to touch her. Day one. You thought she was weak. Easy prey.”
His voice cracks, high and broken. “I didn’t?—”
I step forward, blood dripping from my hands, the stink of Gwen still fresh.
“You thought wrong.”
He takes off into a sprint.
Smart. But not smart enough.
I don’t follow right away. I crouch beside Gwen’s cam, tilting it so her ruined body fills the frame, throat yawning wide, blood streaking bark, eyes glassed and vacant. Perfect for the audience to chew on while I move to the next act.
Then I rise, sliding my gun back into its holster, the high of the kill still buzzing in my veins. My laugh cracks the silence, sharp and low.
“Run, little piggy,” I call into the trees, voice warped through the modulator, carried on the drone mics. “The Hunter wants to play.”
