Page 15 of Stream & Scream

Loud. Glitchy.

Not long after comes the real voice.

Smug. Polished. Manufactured.

Milo fucking Vane.

“That’s one down, folks. And the night’s just getting started. Who’s next? Who’s watching? Who’s winning?”

The forest erupts.

Screams. Scrambling. Like someone kicked a fucking anthill.

Three of them dart deeper into the woods, the wrong direction. Perfect.

Milo’s voice fades. He thinks he’s the ringmaster, the face of the franchise.

He’s a fucking joke.

A prop with a receding hairline and a media contract.

I’m the real reason they’re all tuned in.

I tap Liv’s feed again.

She’s crouched low, back to a crooked tree, breath sawing in and out like she’s trying to stay silent and still but her lungs won’t fucking let her.

Smart girl.

Wrong game.

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t reach for the camera on her wrist.

She just listens—knees drawn to her chest, back pressed to the hard rock surface behind her, breathing quiet and deliberate. She knows something’s out there.

She knows something’s getting closer.

Her black tracksuit clings to her damp skin, sweat catching in the hollow of her throat. Strands of her dark hair stick to her temple, wild from running, from hiding. That face, painted by God on a bender, still looks calm. Not serene. Not hopeful. Just braced. Lips parted, jaw tight, lashes low. There's a gold hoop glinting in her nose. Ink crawling up the visible sliver of her collar and the backs of her hands. She doesn’t need much to wreck me. She’s already done it.

There’s something about her quiet that feels louder than any of their screams.

Like she’s not just surviving.

She’s baiting me.

My fingers curl around the edge of the tablet.

Not yet. Not fucking yet.

But fuck, the urge to break the rules, to break the silence, to tear through the brush and cage her to the forest floor. Towhisper against that pretty throat that the monster she’s been fearing isn’t just real… he’sobsessed.

It stings behind my teeth like static. Like a fuse sparking.

I shift my weight back into the trees, breathing through the want, grinning behind the mask like a wolf who’s already picked his lamb.

One hand wrapped around the screen. The other… restless. It won’t be long.

She’s not playing their game.