Page 18 of Horror and Chill
Each one a violation and a decoration. A stitch in a ribbon we can’t yet see.
Our girl flinches at first. We notice the twitch of her foot, the flex of her thigh. But she doesn’t cry out. She breathes through it. Brave Little Horror. She lets Kira press the next one in. And another. Ten. Fifteen. Her breathing shifts. Heavy. Slow. Controlled. We recognize that sound. We’ve heard it before.
She’s enjoying this.
By the twenty-fifth needle, a moan slips out.
When the thirtieth slides into place. “Can you guys tell what it is yet?” she purrs, adjusting the camera with shaking fingers. “Fuck, Kira. It’s so cute. A bow. To match the one I always wear in my hair.”
Sure enough, with the right lighting and the right angle, the pattern becomes obvious. The needles curve into the shape of a large bow across her thigh—metal glinting like polished thread pulled through flesh.
We can hear a camera shutter. Kira must be documenting it. Agatha is grinning now. Drunk on endorphins. High on her own pain.
She turns the camera back toward her flushed face, sweat shining at her temple. “What did you guys think? Love? Or no?”
ThighHighPriest:Ten outta ten would kneel to worship that thigh.
JennyBean69:ARE YOU EVEN HUMAN WTF
CryptCummin:You’re fucking insane. I’m obsessed.
HolySpite:Find Jesus. You make me sick. Disgusting.
That last one… earns our full attention.
When she reads it. We see it… the way her face falters.
Just for a second. A fraction of a breath. But we see it. The sting.
Someone’s words cutting deeper than any needle ever could. And then she smiles again. She closes the live with a wink and a little wave. “‘Til next time, my dark sluts.”
The screen goes black. But we’re already moving.
HolySpite.
We saw the pain in her eyes. She hid it well, but it was there. And for what? For doing something bold? Something brave? Something beautiful?
That user will pay for it. We know how to find them. We didn’t waste four years learning how to breach firewalls and break encryptions just to let cowards like that go unpunished.
She wants to pretend she’s not scared?
That’s fine.
We’ll take care of the fear for her.
And maybe then, she’ll finally look at the shadows in the trees and understand what we already know.
She was made for us.
She just hasn’t realized it yet.
HolySpite.
We lock onto the name like a heat-seeking missile. Hiding behind a screen, thinking it’s enough. Thinking anonymity is a shield. It never is. Not from us.
The laptop is already open. Fingers move fast across the keyboard. The silence in the room sharpens. We don’t need to speak to know what comes next.
First, the username. Cross-reference with chat archives, old streams, comment history, and activity timestamps. We are already in the logs, while back tracing the IP from the livestream logs Agatha keeps on her end, even if she doesn’t know she does. We’ve seen her computer. We know how her backup folder syncs.
