Page 9 of Stream & Scream

Lower. Just beneath the calf. A warning shot that doesn’t miss. It punches through meat and tendon with a wet crack , spraying the bark beside her. It doesn’t drop her, but it should’ve.

She chokes on a sob and keeps going. Her braid flaps behind her like a white flag. Her arms pump with desperate rhythm, but I can see the trembling in her fingers. Blood slicks her boot print. She stumbles again, because of me, and it’s so satisfying I almost laugh.

I track her through the scope, not bothering to shoot again just yet. Let her run. Let her hope.

Then I click the modulator mic on. Just one tap.

“Come on, choir girl.” My voice drips static through the helmet. Cold, cruel. Designed for broadcast. “Is this where you pray harder? Or scream louder?”

She gasps.

She heard that.

Perfect.

I fire once more, this time into the dirt just ahead of her path. The bullet thuds into a decaying log, exploding it into a puff of spores. She veers left, too sharp, and crashes through a tangle of low-hanging brush.

“God’s not listening. But I am.” Another tap. “And I fucking love the sound of your suffering.”

She cries out again. Louder this time. A sob tangled with her breath, ragged and sharp and petrified.

Poor little lamb. Lost in the woods, still humming hymns while the wolf circles. Still thinking she’s holy enough to be spared.

I take chase. Silent. Deadly. I don’t trip. I don’t stagger. I move like the ghost of her god, vengeful and grinning.

She stumbles, staggers, but claws forward like some half-dead thing desperate to crawl out of its grave. Blood paints her sneaker, leaving red footprints behind her like a trail of breadcrumbs.

I follow at a walking pace now.

There’s no need to rush. The woods are mine. I know where she’s heading—toward an old rock formation, sheer ledge behind it, no exit. A dead end she doesn’t know is waiting. A perfect little altar.

She reaches it seconds later and climbs over slick stone like a woman possessed, panting hard, the whimpers turning to choked prayers. She mutters something about forgiveness. About angels. About someone watching.

The only ones watching are at home, grinning from ear to ear while they impatiently await her demise. They want it slow and painful and bloody. They want drama. That’s why the producers pay me a pretty penny.

I step into the clearing behind her, slow and steady. My boot snap a branch beneath the litter of leaves.

She hears it.

Freezes.

Turns.

Sees me. Really sees me, up close and personal.

Her lips move. She tries to speak.

But nothing comes out.

I step closer, smiling as widely as the viewers at home.

She’s frozen in place, weight shifting like she’s debating whether to run, collapse, or beg.

“You ran well,” I say through the helmet's comm, my voice modulated and deep, like it’s coming from somewhere inside the woods themselves. “You almost made me sweat.”

She drops to her knees, hands clasped, eyes wide and wet.

She’s praying again.

I let her.

I lower the rifle and crouch beside her, one hand reaching out, slow, patient, until my glove clamps down over her mouth.

She jerks hard, panicked, body thrashing against mine like a live wire, braid smacking my visor, tears streaking through blood on her face.

Her eyes plead the words her mouth cannot.

I lean close.

“Shhh,” I whisper, just low enough for her to feel it on her skin. “Say your last prayer.”

And she tries.

Fuck , she tries.

Just a breath, a whisper, a gasp. “ Forgive m? —”

My blade flashes once.

Sharp. Clean. A single motion practiced a hundred times.

Her voice stops. Her eyes go wide. Her pulse erupts under my hand, then flutters, then fades.

I lower her gently, almost reverently, onto the forest floor, her body warm and slack in my arms. Blood seeps from her neck in slow pulses, trickling down her shoulder to the ground beneath. Her braid unravels like a ribbon, fingers twitching once before stillness settles in.

The drone finds us then.

Buzzing low like a metal insect, its lens blinking as it descends into the clearing, catching the tableau in eerie silence. I wipe the blade on her torn leggings, stand to my full height, and turn toward the camera.

I don’t pose.

I own it.

“For the faithful,” I say, voice cold through the comm filter. “Your god doesn’t live here.”

Then I reach down, rip the still-blinking wrist-cam from her arm, and hold it out so the drone gets a clear view. Her slack face. Her ruined throat. Her blood soaking the earth like wine spilled during communion.

“Let the audience decide if this looks like salvation.”

The drone hovers and captures every inch.

Then I turn and fade back into the trees without a trace, like a shadow that never existed.

By the time they find her, if they find her, there’ll be nothing left but bloodstains, a broken prayer, and the echo of a voice whispering sins into the pine needles.

A lesson.

A warning.

A sacrifice.

The forest keeps her now. Holds her. And somewhere, cameras are still rolling. Viewers are still watching.

Let them cheer.

Let them cry.

Let them believe this was random.

It wasn’t.

Welcome to the fucking game.