Chapter 3 - River
THREE
RIVER
I haven’t blinked in forty-seven seconds.
My eyes are dry. My fingers ache from gripping my phone. The message is still there, glowing in the darkness of my apartment like a dare.
I can make them cry.
Beneath it, a second one just arrived.
But only if you’re willing to break your own rules.
My first rule? Don’t trust anyone.
My second? Especially not people who offer help without a face.
I’m sitting in the middle of my living room floor, hoodie zipped to my chin, legs crossed like I’m pretending to be calm.
The shadows from the TV flicker across the walls like something alive.
I forgot I left a horror game paused—pixelated blood still smeared across the frame like a warning. Ha-ha. Thematic.
I don’t know why I clicked the message. Or the link. Or the second link that required the VPN I bought on impulse. But I did. And now I’m in a chat room that shouldn’t exist, talking to someone called Mask, who claims he can fix this.
Whatever this is anymore.
I start typing:
Who are you?
Three dots appear. Then vanish. Then reappear. Then:
Wrong question.
Okay. That’s not creepy at all.
I try again.
What do you want?
To make them cry. Like they made you.
I hate how my chest tightens when I read that. Like it’s echoing in a place I’ve kept locked up too long. It’s not the kind of sympathy you get from HR or your mom or friends who try to help by saying just ignore them. It’s raw. Ugly. Accurate.
But I don’t work for free.
My rules. Or no deal.
Of course there are rules. There are always rules.
I glance at the clock. 1:04 a.m. My phone buzzes again—a text from a burner number.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: u up? bet ur window is ;)
I flinch. My heart kicks. The last message like that was followed by the photo. My apartment. My bike. My life.
You have ten seconds to decide.
Mask again.
I hesitate. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.
But I type:
Fine.
One word. That’s all it takes. The rules arrive instantly, like he had them queued up, and ready to go.
RULE #1: You obey me. No questions. No hesitation.
RULE #2: You tell no one. No cops. No friends. No exceptions.
RULE #3: You tell the truth. Every time. Especially when you’re afraid.
RULE #4: When I say move, you move. Even if it doesn’t make sense.
RULE #5: If you break any of the above, I disappear. And you’re on your own.
The cursor blinks like it’s waiting for a signature. I stare at the screen, then down at my hands.
My knuckles are white. I don’t remember curling my fingers so tight.
“Okay,” I whisper, then type it.
Okay.
Immediately, another message.
Good girl. Now listen carefully.
Okay, wow. There’s… a vibe.
Before I can decide how I feel about it, the next message hits.
You need to leave. Now.
I freeze.
What?
Someone is on your floor. Wrong time. Wrong reason. Go. NOW.
“Bullshit,” I whisper, standing anyway. Because suddenly my legs believe him even if my brain doesn’t. I creep toward the peephole. The hallway is empty. Still, my heart is sprinting like it knows something I don’t.
You’re messing with me.
No. I’m trying to keep you breathing. Your neighbor with the loud dog? She left ten minutes ago. Someone tried her door. They’re three doors down now. Your door is next. MOVE.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
I don’t wait. I don’t argue.
I grab my bag and shove my phone and laptop inside. I throw on my sneakers and hoodie and open the window by the fire escape. It’s a tight squeeze. My leg catches on the sill. I scrape my shin. Worth it.
The night air is ice. My breath clouds. I’m already regretting this.
My phone buzzes again. Mask.
Good. Now turn left. Keep walking. Don’t stop until I say. And River?
Don’t go back home tonight.
I stare at the message as I step into the alley behind my building. My hands are shaking. My brain is screaming that this is insane. That I just listened to a stranger on the dark web.
But my feet keep moving.
Because I believe him.
And I have no idea what that says about me.
Yet.
I don’t know where else to go.
After climbing down the fire escape and walking five blocks in the dark with nothing but paranoia and my overactive imagination for company, I end up texting the one person I know won’t ask too many questions.
Me: u up?
Tasha: yeah, want me to put on tea or tequila?
She meets me at the door in sweats and a pineapple-print sleep shirt, one slipper hanging halfway off her foot. Her hair’s up in a messy bun that somehow still looks intentional. I walk inside, and the scent of sandalwood and popcorn wraps around me like a blanket.
“You okay?” she asks, squinting as I slide off my hoodie and plop down on her couch.
“Define okay,” I mutter.
She hands me a mug—tea, not tequila—and flops beside me, legs tucked under her like a cat. “Is it the trolls again?”
I nod, then take a long sip, grateful for the warmth. “They’re getting bolder. Someone tried my neighbor’s door. I think mine was next.”
Tasha’s smile vanishes. “River.”
“I’m fine.” It’s automatic. A reflex. A lie that tastes sour.
She doesn’t push. That’s the thing about Tasha—she knows when to pry and when to back off. I tell myself that’s why I came here. Not because being alone tonight felt like wearing a target.
“I’ll file it with Legal first thing,” she says, voice low like we’re conspiring. “It’s not just you—we’ve had Cathedral-related harassment spilling into the company forums. Moderators are flagging it. And… Mason’s name keeps popping up.”
Mason. Heat crawls up my neck. My fingers tighten around the mug until the ceramic clicks against my ring.
“I don’t want to talk about him,” I manage.
But my brain does anyway.
Mason Reid used to be my gravity. He’s smart, charming, the kind of coworker who remembered your favorite bug-fix snack and looked good holding a whiteboard marker.
We didn’t date long, just enough for me to mistake proximity for destiny.
Then NovaPlay started greenlighting my pitches.
My prototypes got slotted into the build.
My name landed on the dev diary, not his.
He didn’t handle it.
Meetings turned sharp. Jokes that once felt flirtatious started feeling like paper cuts.
He’d “clarify” my ideas to the room, louder, until they sounded like his.
When the game director picked my combat loop over his, he congratulated me with a smile that never reached his eyes and a whisper I still can’t scrub from my skull: Don’t let it go to your head.
The breakup was a slow-motion crash everyone in the office watched.
Slack threads went quiet when we passed by.
People traded looks in stand-up. HR suggested “professional distance,” as if distance exists when you share a codebase and a build calendar.
I learned the hard way: never date someone you have to see at 9 a.m. on a sprint review. It’s my new rule, framed and backlit.
Mason got transferred to a different department, which was good and bad.
Good, because, I didn’t have to see him on the daily, bad because he was not happy.
Now, I rehearse answers before I speak in meetings.
I feel his old criticisms in my bones—the ones that taught me to shrink, to apologize for taking up space on a project I helped build.
“I’ll send you the incident numbers,” she adds, softer now. “You’re not alone in this.”
I nod like that’s enough, like a reference number can patch the hairline fractures he left behind. I blow on my tea even though it’s already cold, and I tell myself—again—that I will not let Mason Reid be the author of my self doubt.
“Thank you,” I try to smile but it’s forced.
She nudges my knee with hers. “Want to talk about Gage?”
I nearly choke on my tea. “What?”
Tasha grins like she’s been waiting to ask. “Come on. You two flirt like it’s your job. If unresolved sexual tension could generate electricity, NovaPlay wouldn’t need a server budget.”
“We don’t flirt.”
“Mm-hmm. And I don’t hoard gummy bears in my nightstand.”
“You definitely do.”
She points at me. “Deflection noted.”
I sigh and lean back, staring at the ceiling. “He’s obnoxious. Cocky. Drinks the last cup of coffee just to spite me.”
“And hot,” Tasha adds. “Don’t forget hot. I’d climb that man like a fire escape.”
My spine stiffens. It’s immediate. Annoying. Unexpected.
“Gross,” I mutter, even though it’s not. Not even a little.
Tasha side-eyes me. “What? I’m serious. If you’re not interested, I might shoot my shot. I mean, that jawline alone deserves its own Instagram.”
“You don’t even like men with jawlines.”
“I do when they smirk like sin and write sexy commit messages.”
I hate that I know exactly what she means.
I stare into my mug and pretend to be fascinated by the tiny flecks of tea swirling at the bottom. “He’s not my type,” I lie, remembering my no dating anyone I work with rule.
“No? Your type isn’t tall, broody, and weirdly obsessed with passwords?”
My cheeks warm. “You’re projecting.”
“I’m investigating.” She pokes me. “So you wouldn’t care if I asked him out?”
“Of course not.”
I say it too fast. Too sharp. Too fake.
She doesn’t call me on it. Just raises an eyebrow, nods slowly, then gets up to grab a blanket.
“Guest sheets are clean. You can take the pullout or the floor. I’m not picky.”
“Pullout’s fine,” I say. “Thanks, Tash.”
She pauses at the hallway. “Seriously though. If something’s wrong… really wrong? You’d tell me, right?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
Another lie.
When she disappears into her room, I curl up on the pullout couch and stare at the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles above me. My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I don’t check it.
I already know who it is.
Mask.
I should be freaked out. Should be calling someone. Should be doing something other than lying here and thinking about how Gage looked earlier this morning with his stupid half-grin and his unfairly good hair and the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention.
I hate how I feel.
Not just the fear.
The want.
I bury my face in the pillow and let out a sound somewhere between a scream and a laugh.
I’m being hunted by internet psychos, protected by a faceless stranger, and possibly crushing on the one man I swore to hate forever.
Perfect.
Tomorrow, I’ll go back to pretending I don’t care.
Tonight?
I fall asleep wondering what Gage Dawson would sound like if he whispered my name in the dark.