Page 19 of Stream & Scream

I mark him for later.

He’s the kind that won’t shut up until his jaw’s broken in two.

But not yet. He’s useful for now. He draws attention. Soaks up confidence like a sponge, and when I finally squeeze, I want everyone watching. I want his death to be the end of all hope.

So I skip him.

Flip through feeds.

And there she is.

Brooke.

Alone.

Eighteen or nineteen. Small frame, maybe five-three. A wisp of a thing in the standard-issue black tracksuit. Light blonde hair twisted into a fishtail braid that swings down her spine like a nervous tick. Her sneakers are muddy, one untied, and she’s tripping more than she’s walking. Eyes wide, glassy. Every little rustle has her jerking around like a marionette with its strings tangled. She doesn’t know where to go.

Doesn’t know who to trust.

Which means she’s mine.

She kneels suddenly. Drops like her bones give out. Her little knees hit fallen leaves and mulch and she clasps her hands under her chin like some fucking church painting.

Oh.

Oh, this is better than I expected.

I swipe up her file. Contestant info. Hometown—Raleigh, North Carolina. Activities—Sunday women’s choir, local community outreach, Church of Grace volunteer.

She’s a believer.

A real one.

The kind that doesn’t fuck before marriage and closes her eyes when they kiss in movies.

This forest is going to eat her alive.

No, scratch that.

I’mgoing to.

I click the tablet screen off and pocket it. No need for feeds now. I already know where she is—#13, Brooke. Caught alone, muttering her soft little prayers to a God who’s not listening.

She’s not directly below, but close. East quadrant. A jagged rock formation juts out like a broken tooth, moss curling over its base. She’s just to the left of that, crouched in the shadows, knees pressed to mud, hands clasped.

I move like smoke.

Every step is calculated. Down the trunk, boot to bark, one hand gripping a softened crevice where rain has chewed through the grain. No rope. No harness. Just bare instinct and a spine full of sin.

When I hit the forest floor, I crouch low and freeze.

The trees freeze with me.

It’s darker in this part of the woods. The canopy is thicker. The branches woven like ribs, crowding out the moon. The clouds smear any leftover light. The air is wet. Heavy. It smells like decomposing leaves and musk.

Every leaf here wants to be quiet. Every root listens.

The forest doesn’t breathe unless I say so.