Chapter 7 River
SEVEN
RIVER
For the first time in weeks, I wake up without the feeling that something’s sitting on my chest. No new messages. No emails from fake accounts. No one whispering about me in the hallway—at least, not that I can tell.
Mason Reid is officially unemployed.
I still can’t believe it. One day he was swaggering into the office like he owned the place, and the next, IT walked him out mid-morning with a cardboard box and zero eye contact. He didn’t even glance my way. Just kept his head down while HR muttered something about “violation of company policy.”
Good.
He can go violate it somewhere far, far away.
I’ve spent months waiting to breathe again, and today… I finally do.
It’s almost unnerving how quiet the internet’s been since. No new comments. No pictures. No fake videos. It’s like someone finally pulled the plug on the nightmare. I half expect an apology letter from the algorithm gods.
So when I walk into NovaPlay that morning, the sunlight actually looks golden instead of apocalyptic gray. My reflection in the lobby glass doesn’t look haunted. Just tired, and maybe a little hopeful.
I drop my bag on my desk, boot up my computer, and make a silent promise: no doomscrolling, no crying, no spiraling. Just work. Normal and quiet.
And then Gage does something that short-circuits my brain.
He hands me the first cup of coffee.
No smirk. No taunt. Just… coffee. Steaming, perfect, in my favorite mug—the one he usually steals.
I blink at it. “Are you dying?”
He leans on the edge of my desk, casual as ever, like this isn’t the weirdest thing he’s ever done. “What, I can’t be nice?”
“No,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “Not without an ulterior motive.”
“Maybe I’m turning over a new leaf.”
I take the cup slowly, suspicious. “You’re incapable of personal growth.”
He grins, and tilts his head. “You wound me, Quinn.”
“You’ll live.”
But my lips twitch. Just a little. It’s the first genuine smile I’ve felt in weeks.
He nods toward my screen. “You diving into that new patch?”
“Yeah. Gameplay update for the combat AI. Trying to fix the targeting system before beta.”
“Need help?”
I glance up, ready with a sarcastic reply, but something in his expression stops me. His voice is softer, less… sharp. Concern flickers behind his eyes before he covers it with his usual smirk.
I shake my head. “I’ve got it. But thanks.”
“Anytime.”
And just like that, he’s gone—back to his desk, back to pretending we’re not locked in the world’s most confusing workplace dynamic. Except today, it feels different. Lighter. Maybe we’re both tired of fighting.
Maybe we both needed a truce.
The day moves in a rare, glorious rhythm. No breakdowns. No HR check-ins. My code compiles cleanly, and the test server behaves for once. By lunchtime, I’ve almost convinced myself that everything’s normal again.
Then my phone buzzes.
At first, I ignore it. Probably a system alert or one of Tasha’s endless group chats about company yoga. But it buzzes again. And again.
I glance down.
Unknown number: “Bet you miss him already.”
Then another:
Unknown number: “Don’t get too comfortable.”
My stomach twists.
No. No, it’s over. It has to be over.
I glance around the office, trying to breathe. No one’s looking at me, but the hairs on the back of my neck stand up anyway. I open the message details. It’s coming from a masked IP. Private proxy. Encrypted.
The coffee turns to acid in my stomach.
My phone buzzes again. A photo this time. Blurry, taken from a distance. My apartment building. My floor. My bedroom.
Oh my god.
They’re inside my apartment.
I stand so fast my chair rolls backward into the partition wall. Heads turn. Gage looks up immediately from across the aisle, eyebrows drawing together.
“Everything okay?” he calls.
“Yeah,” I lie. “Just—uh—coffee spill.”
I grab my phone, my bag, and speed-walk toward the hallway before he can ask anything else.
In the empty corridor outside the conference rooms, I pull up the secure app—the one Mask used the first night he found me.
My fingers tremble as I type.
ME: They’re back. They’re in my apartment.
A beat passes.
Then my screen lights up.
MASK: I see it.
MASK: Leave the building. Now.
MASK: Do not take the front exit.
I swallow hard. ME: How do you always know?
MASK: Because I’m watching. Go to the east stairwell. Move quickly.
Part of me wants to throw my phone. To scream that I can’t keep doing this—living half-scared, half-protected by a ghost. But the rest of me—the part that’s been surviving by listening—moves.
My sneakers slap against the tile as I cut through the side hallway, past the break room. The office fades behind me. The stairwell door slams shut, echoing in the empty concrete stairwell. My pulse thunders in my ears.
Level three.
By the time I reach the garage, I’m breathing hard. The air smells like exhaust and dust. It’s dim—half the overhead lights flicker uselessly.
I check my phone.
No new messages.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself.
Then, from the corner of my eye—movement.
A shadow.
Long. Human.
I freeze.
Someone’s standing behind one of the support pillars near the back row of cars. I can’t see details, just the vague shape of a shoulder, the hint of dark clothing. My breath catches. The shadow shifts—like whoever it is just leaned forward.
My phone buzzes again. I flinch, nearly dropping it.
MASK: Do not panic. Get in your car and drive to the main exit. Keep your head down. Don’t run.
I glance toward my car. It’s only twenty feet away. But those twenty feet feel like a minefield.
I take a breath, force myself to walk—slow, steady, pretending I don’t see anything. My keys shake in my hand.
Ten feet.
Five.
Behind me, something scrapes.
A shoe? A hand? My brain can’t decide.
I unlock the car, slide in, slam the door, and lock it in one motion. My hands are shaking so badly I almost miss the start button. The engine roars to life.
Headlights flood the garage—and for a split second, I see him.
A man in dark clothes, hoodie up, back turned to me. He’s not moving toward me. Not yet. But he’s waiting.
I can’t see his face.
My phone buzzes again.
MASK: Drive. Now.
I peel out of the spot, tires squealing, adrenaline screaming through my veins. I don’t look back until I hit the ramp. When I do, the shadow’s gone.
By the time I make it two blocks away, my hands have stopped working. I pull over, gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles ache.
Another message lights up my screen.
MASK: You did good. Go somewhere public for now. You’re safe.
MASK: Rule #1. Always trust me.
I close my eyes, swallowing the lump in my throat.
Safe.
The word feels like a lie and a promise all at once.
I glance in the rearview mirror. My reflection looks pale, shaken, but alive.
Then I think of Gage, handing me coffee this morning, that soft half-smile, like maybe he knew today was going to fall apart again.
And I don’t know why, but the thought of him—his steadiness, his infuriating calm—grounds me.
I pop a stick of Misfit chewing gum into my mouth and type back.
ME: Okay. I trust you.
Then I start the car again, merging into the traffic and noise, pretending that means something close to normal.
But somewhere, deep down, I know the truth.
This isn’t over.
Not even close.