Page 1 of Stream & Scream

Jaxen

Friday Afternoon. Hours before the game starts.

T hey unload like cattle. One by one. Shiny hair, shiny teeth, and glossy lips.

Camera-ready and completely fucking clueless.

I can smell the fake confidence from here—cheap perfume and silicone ambition.

They stumble down the bus steps, blinking against the sun, already jostling for screen time.

A few are trying too hard. Laughing too loud, brushing invisible lint from their designer jackets, glancing at the crew like they know they’re being watched and they fucking love it.

It's embarrassing, really. Watching them pretend they’ve trained for this.

As if hashtags and filtered thirst traps ever taught them how to survive.

My eyes flick past all of them. None of them matter. Not really.

Until her .

I clock her the second she steps off the bus.

Small frame. Long, dark hair pulled into a loose braid that falls over her shoulder like rope.

Tattoos coil down her arms in black inked stories I want to read with my tongue.

A septum ring glints in the sun. Another stud rests above her lip.

Piercing green eyes. Not emerald. Not jade.

No. This is something wilder. Something you’d find in a predator hiding in the brush, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

She’s not pretending. Not playing to the cameras.

Her stance is guarded, shoulders tense and chin tilted like she knows exactly what the fuck this is and still signed up anyway.

Olivia Walden.

I’ve read the dossier. Twenty-six. 2.8 million followers.

She posts videos of gothic décor, tattoo healing routines, macabre recipes with fake blood and edible roses.

Her aesthetic is all ravens, velvet and dim lighting, curated to perfection.

A little haunted doll that’s come to life.

Most men probably want to save her. Shelter her.

Clean the blood off her hands and wrap her up like porcelain. But I’m not most men.

No, I want to watch her break.

And then I want to make her beg to be broken again.

I zoom in on the monitor. The way she stands apart from the others, arms crossed, weight shifted to one hip.

She doesn’t mingle. Doesn’t smile. Her mouth is a flat, a stubborn line that says fuck around and find out.

But underneath all that armor? I can see it.

The thing she doesn’t show on her feed. The ache.

The hunger. That deep, cavernous need to be ruined just fucking right.

Girls like Olivia dress the part, but none of them really know what it means to be prey until the game starts.

She’s going to learn.

I roll my shoulders and lean back in the surveillance truck.

The walls hum with live feeds, each screen flickering with a different angle—drones, wrist cams, forest trail markers.

It’s all locked and ready. The producers are buzzing around behind me, checking comms and confirming camera signals.

They talk too much. Always do. All they care about is blood and ratings. But me? I want more.

This isn’t about a fucking paycheck. Not for me.

This is about instinct. Need. That primal twitch in your fucking spine that lights up when you spot something worth chasing. I’ve killed in wars, in training exercises, on command. Hell, I’ve done it out of boredom, just to feel something. But this? This is different. She’s different.

I don’t know her story. I don’t fucking care—not yet. What I care about is the way she moves. Like she doesn’t want to be seen but knows damn well she will be. Like prey that’s smart enough to bite. She’s not flirting with the cameras or clinging to the others like they’re some kind of lifeline.

No, she’s quiet. Coiled. Watching everything.

The way her mouth sets? That little flat line of defiance?

That’s what does it. That’s how I know she isn’t one I’ll kill early.

She’s not a filler reel or a throwaway scream.

She’s the kind I’ll stretch out. Make last. Break slowly.

Because girls like her? They don’t fall apart easy.

They fracture. Sharp. Loud. Beautiful. And I plan to savor every fucking crack.

I’ll feed it. With pain. With praise. With my cock buried so deep inside her she won’t remember where her thoughts end and mine begin.

“You’re drooling,” one of the tech guys says behind me, laughing nervously like he thinks we’re all in on some joke.

I don’t look at him. I just smile, slow and cold. “You watching the same feed I am?”

“Uh… yeah. I mean, I guess. She’s hot?”

“She’s mine. ”

That shuts him up.

Good .

Because I don’t share. Not once the hunt starts. And not with this one.

My fingers flex against the metal edge of the desk. The game starts at midnight, but I’m already braced for her. She’ll head north if she’s smart. Stick to the thicker woods, avoid the water, conserve heat. Not that it’ll help much in the long run.

She’s in the standard issue black Stream & Scream tracksuit like the rest of them, synthetic blend, show logo stamped across the back, collar zipped halfway to her throat. Her sneakers are already scuffed. Laces double-knotted.

Nothing custom. Nothing flashy. No lipstick, no false lashes.

No interest in playing to the camera. She’s not trying to seduce a sponsorship deal or rack up followers with fake tears and cleavage.

She’s not here to go viral—at least not the way the others are.

She thinks it’s just a game. Thinks there’s a prize waiting at the end and rules to follow in the middle. She’s here to win.

I respect that.

But it won’t save her.

Nothing will.

Because the moment she stepped off that bus, she gave me every reason not to let her win.

She doesn’t even realize it yet, but she’s mine.

And before the sun rises on the final day, I’m going to break her—again and again—until she stops asking me for mercy and begs for more.

I stand and grab my pack. My gear’s already locked and loaded—tactical, efficient, mine . Reinforced combat boots, military-grade soft shell jacket, blackout fatigues layered with Kevlar.

Everything custom-fit to move with me, not against me.

Combat knife strapped to my thigh. Sidearm holstered at my hip.

Tranquilizers, rope, zip ties. MREs sealed and rationed.

Backup camo, forest-optimized. My helmet hangs from the hook by the door—matte black, no logos, no bullshit.

Built with thermal sensors, audio dampeners, and a visor that sees in the dark like a predator.

The producers wanted something flashier.

Something branded. I told them to go fuck themselves.

This one’s mine. Like everything else in that forest will be, soon enough.

Like her.

I let the silence wrap around me as I step out of the surveillance truck and into the clearing. The air is sharp with the scent of pine needles, wet earth, and the distant smoke of the producer’s campfires burning out behind the main zone.

Somewhere behind me, she’s still at the starting line. Right where they dropped all fifteen of them off. Cameras in their faces. Producers shouting countdowns. Viewers are already placing bets.

None of them know it’s all real yet.

But they will soon enough. She will.

Because when the lights go out and the forest swallows the signal, I won’t be a character anymore.

I’ll be the last thing she fucking sees.

I wonder if she knows she’s already being hunted.

My boots crunch over frost-laced gravel as I head toward the edge of the woods.

Beyond the fence line, the wilderness stretches out like an open mouth.

Towering pines, gnarled trunks, deep ravines.

Shallow creeks that’ll freeze by morning.

Wildlife tracks and blood trails. No paths.

No shelters. No help. Just forest and fear.

Fifteen contestants. One hunter. That’s how the show sells it.

A horror-themed reality challenge with real stakes.

A half-million-dollar prize dangling like bait.

A one-in-fifteen shot at viral fame, survival, glory .

But what they don’t know is this?—

The hunter decides who lives.

The hunter decides who wins.

And I’ve already fucking decided.

They think it’s a fucking game. A horror-themed obstacle course with fake blood and staged screams. Flashy effects. Clever editing. They signed waivers without reading them, posed for the trailers, cracked jokes on the ride over.

All of them smiling. Laughing .

They won’t be laughing when the first body drops.

When they see the blood doesn’t wash off and realize there’s no safe word. No exit. No second take.

That’s the part I live for—when it hits. The fracture of understanding in their eyes. The silence that follows the scream. That sharp, breathless moment where reality claws down their throat and they can’t swallow it fast enough.

They’ll panic.

They’ll beg.

And I’ll cut them down one by one, clean and efficiently. No names. No mercy. They don’t matter.

None of them do.

Except for her.

I can already see the look on her face when the illusion breaks. When the forest turns quiet and she realizes the cameras aren’t just props. That the blood on her boots came from someone real.

When she realizes I’m not a challenge. I’m not a character.

I’m the consequence.

She’s mine, and I don’t let go of shit that belongs to me.

Not until I’ve broken every last piece.

She’s the ending.

The grand fucking finale.

And when the credits roll, I’ll be buried inside her, watching her come undone for the last time.

Because survival isn’t just about outlasting death. It’s about giving in to it. Letting it fuck you open and change you. Liv doesn’t know that yet. But she will.

And when she screams?

It’ll be my name.

Game on, clickbait .