Page 62 of Stream & Scream
Sunday night
Icatch her scent before I catch the sound—sour sweat and girl-tears, that sharp tang of fear riding her skin like perfume. The creek roars nearby, swollen from the storm, water chewing through rock like it’s hungry for her name.
Delaney.
She’s close.
I ghost through the trees, boots sliding silent across decaying leaves and wet pine. The forest is a cathedral tonight, black canopy swallowing moonlight, trees creaking like old pews. Every step is measured. I don’t need to rush. Crippled prey never gets far. A twisted ankle is the worst kind of injury—doesn’t knock you out, doesn’t kill you fast. It drags you. Forces you to crawl, to sob, to fucking plead.
And right on cue—she’s pleading.
“I’m done! Hello? Can anybody hear me? Please!”
Her voice shreds the quiet, raw and desperate. I ease closer until the tree line breaks, visor painting the bank in ghost-green heat. There she is, hunched over, one hand clinging to a branch,the other hammering that shiny panic button on her wristband like it’s salvation. The light blinks yellow, feeble, a useless heartbeat.
I almost laugh. She thinks that blinking wristband is her lifeline. Thinks some faceless tech in a headset is gonna swoop in with med kits and mercy the second she cries loud enough. She still believes this is a game—levels and rules, safe words hidden in fine print.
No one’s coming.
Except me.
I ease forward, slow enough for the tension to strangle her before I even touch her. Just enough that her wrist-cam lens catches my silhouette—mask gleaming under moonlight, shoulders broad, blade resting in its sheath like a secret I haven’t told yet.
She whips around. Freezes.
Her brunette waves tangled from the creek mist, violet-gray eyes wide and stupid in the dark. Sneakers already soaked through from stumbling too close to the water. She looks like a runway model shoved into survival gear, still trying to pose for her best angle while she bleeds desperation all over the dirt.
Her mouth twitches like her brain forgot the words it was supposed to use. “Wait—what the fuck—are you… production? This is a joke, right? Some… cosplay shit?”
I cock my head, amusement burning through me. She’s terrified and still trying to sass her way out like some discount damsel, lip gloss in the woods. The naivety is delicious.
She has no idea.
Not yet.
I don’t answer. Just let the dread sink teeth into her.
She limps forward, ankle collapsing with every step. “Jesus Christ,” she scoffs, trying to sound braver than she feels. “Realfunny. Masked psycho bullshit. Ha-ha. Okay, yeah, you got me. Now drop the act and get me out of here.”
I move one step closer. Her breath hitches. Another, and she stumbles back like a crab, arms flailing until her bad ankle smashes into a rock and she crashes flat on her ass. The scream tears out of her throat, ugly and raw.
“Oh fuck—fuck!” She slaps her wristband again and again, yellow light strobing wild across the mud. “I’m pressing it! Do you see this? Hello?”
I crouch low, tilt my head, and let my voice rasp through the modulator, dark, deliberate, hungry. “Thought they’d come for you, didn’t you?”
She stares like the words don’t belong in the world she thought she signed up for. “W-what?”
“That button?” I snort, the sound jagged. “It never worked. Wasn’t built to. Why the fuck would they give prey an out when they’re paying me for the slaughter? Viewers don’t tune in to watch you tap out, sweetheart. They come for the screaming. For the bloodbath.”
Her face drains to chalk. “You’re lying.”
“Am I?” I lean closer, visor throwing her reflection back at her in a warped, ghost-green glint. “Tell me, Delaney, did you even bother to read the fine print in that contract? Hmm? That stupid waiver they shoved in your face? Or were you too fucking desperate to notice you were signing your death sentence? You’re not contestants. You’re meat dressed in matching tracksuits, like cattle tagged for slaughter. And I’m the one they pay to carve the marks.”
She scrambles, tries to stand, but her bad ankle betrays her and she topples straight back into the muck. Tears streak down her cheeks, brunette waves plastered wet and stringy across her forehead.
“What fine print?” she screams, voice cracking into hysteria. “A fucking lawyer! They said there were rules!”
I laugh, sharp and mean, the sound ricocheting off the creek. “Rules? You dumb bitch.”
