Chapter Ten
Last number I got before the world flatlined. No coordinates. No pulse.
My reflection blurs in the glass. Maybe if I stare long enough, I’ll catch her heartbeat. Maybe I’ll see—
Nothing. Just the monster who let her slip away.
Should’ve dragged her back to my car kicking and screaming.
Should’ve locked her in my basement—safe from everyone but me.
Where she’d be mine. Only mine.
Instead, I played this fucking game.
Now she’s out there with a Ghostface who gutted that pretty boy like a fish.
He has her. Or he’s hunting her.
Maybe he’s already finished.
In her.
With her.
Every shadow could be Payton—running, laughing, dying—and I wouldn’t know until I taste her blood in the wind.
I shake the watch. Slam it against my thigh. Useless. Just glass and circuitry. An open grave.
My fist meets the tree. Wood cracks. Splinters bury deep. I lick my knuckles. Burn tastes like copper. Pine. Her.
The air’s electric. Storm coming.
Fuck it.
I’ll find her the way predators do.
I’ll peel back every shadow in this forest. Until the earth itself gives her back.
Think.
Could be The Verge throwing up a blackout. No live feeds. No surprises.
Or maybe it’s him—slithering through their blind spot.
Question is, did they plant the jammer, or is someone carrying it?
Stationary means I can find the edge. Reconnect.
But if it’s moving …
Then he’s close.
I double back to where I left Payton, scanning for trail markers, pressure points. White noise from the repeater trying to sync.
Come on, baby. Give me one blip.
I move in widening arcs. Each pass a calculated risk.
First circle: Static.
Second circle: A flicker—gone before I can lock on.
Third circle: My watch shrieks to life.
182 BPM. Fuck, something’s happening.
A single blip of data slips through the jammer’s teeth:
150 yards northeast.
Ground level. Hollow? Ditch?
Moving south.
Then—silence again. But it’s enough.
I take off. The world tilts underfoot.
182 BPM.
Could mean she’s running. Could mean some other clueless prick has her pinned to a tree.
Or—
He’s got her.
The Ghostface who gutted Trevor. The one who turns a blade into foreplay before death. Is she arching into it?
Or already bleeding out?
Fuck.
Someone’s been here.
The ground’s torn up, branches broken. A boot print—too large to be Payton’s. A fleck of something dark. I crouch, rub it between my fingers.
Blood. Fresh.
My jaw locks. If that’s hers—
No. Not yet. Not ever.
I follow the trail. My steps are quiet. But my mind’s too fucking loud.
The stench hits first—blood, shit, some floral crap that just makes it worse.
Then I see her. Sprawled on the ground. Black corset split clean down the middle—lace severed. Not torn. Cut.
Her skin’s pale in the moonlight. Tiny silver hoop in her nipple. Her throat sliced ear-to-ear. Eyes wide. Lips parted. Her nails are packed with soil … from dragging herself?
I touch two fingers to the blood pooling beneath her. Still warm.
The cut’s too clean. Combat footage clean. The angle’s wrong for rage. Calculated. Like he’s done it before. On animals. On people. Fuck.
Where are you, Payton?
Lightning fractures the sky—
—and I see it all.
Scuffed earth. Footprints, some of them about my size. The missing player tag. Fucker didn’t just take a life. He took a trophy.
Something plastic snaps under my boot. An inhaler. The casing’s cracked, the mouthpiece shattered, but the label’s still legible:
Jessica Langley.
Albuterol. Use every 4-6 hours as needed.
I pocket the inhaler. Check my watch. 11:44 pm. Still no signal. But Payton’s out here. I know it.
I feel her—the way I always have. Through her window. Across the street. In my goddamn dreams.
The control room. Even with the jammer frying signals, those hardwired cameras must still be chewing through footage. All I need is a single frame of Payton’s hoodie. One glimpse to map the dead zones where the killer moves.
The trees blur past. I don’t hear the bastard until he’s right in front of me.
Motherfucker bench-pressed as a fetus. Wider than Trevor and twice as ugly. Rope coils around his forearm. The Bane mask is a nice touch—adds just the right amount of tryhard psychopath to the look.
“Wrong zone, Ghostface.”
I don’t slow. Just veer sideways, ready to shoulder past him.
He sidesteps, blocking me again.
“Where’s your walkie?” he asks, gaze narrowing.
“Up your ass.”
A quick once-over, and his posture shifts. Less meathead, more alert. “That blood? You hurt someone?”
“Not yet,” I mutter. “But I’ve got a spot picked out just for you.”
Then comes the crackle of velcro and plastic. All he gets is static from his walkie. “The fuck?”
“Signal’s jammed. Whoever’s doing this doesn’t want you calling your parole officer.”
He sizes me up, scowling. “You’re Hunter #13.” His voice drops to a gravel pit growl. “Group 4’s missing Ghostface.”
“And you’re blocking my fucking hunt.”
The words barely leave my teeth when a whistle slices through the trees—two sharp notes.
“Boys, boys. Aren’t you two supposed to be hunting?
” She jogs toward us—petite frame poured into a ripped black tank and low-slung camo pants.
Fists taped. Ears like she’s eaten more punches than protein.
Black choker—NOT YOUR GOOD GIRL in blood-red studs.
The tag dangling from her neck says #9. “What’s this, foreplay or a turf war? ”
Bane stays square. Braced for an earthquake that hasn’t hit. His fingers twitch—imagining how to strangle me with his rope and still hit his performance cues.
“We’re conducting a cross-zone integrity check.” He doesn’t take his eyes off me. Voice just this side of official. “Protocol breach.”
The girl snorts. “Sounds like a dick-measuring contest.”
Bane ignores her. I don’t waste my breath either.
He shifts half a step closer—enough to remind me he’s got mass and motive. The rope flexes under his fingers like it’s itching to be useful.
If I tell these two meatheads about Trevor and Jessica, two things happen.
One: panic. Screaming, second-guessing, maybe a breakdown.
Two: suspicion. I’m out of zone, off-comms. Doesn’t take much for gym-rat logic to short-circuit playing cop. Or for a paranoid freak to start pointing fingers—especially when mine are still sticky.
Bottom line, they’d ask too many questions. Wrong ones. I answer, I lose time. If I don’t, I’m the next suspect.
And if I don’t tell them? I keep control. I own the narrative. But I might have to take both of them down if they get twitchy. Bane’s built like a war crime, and #9 looks like she’s here for the brawl, not the chase.
My odds aren’t great, but I’ve won worse fights. Especially when I don’t play fair.
I tilt my head. “Oh, you poor bastard,” I murmur to Bane, soft and sweet like a lullaby before the blade. “You think this is still a game.”
His rope twitches again, eager to have the last word.
I lean in. “Wanna know what she tastes like when she’s scared? Bet she’s all salt and adrenaline. Or maybe she’s too sweet for you?”
His jaw ticks. The rope tightens.
“Enough.” The girl plants her hands on her hips. “Can we not do this alpha chest-thump right now? You’re supposed to come after me, remember?”
I snap my fingers. “Exactly. Listen to #9.”
Bane growls. Actually growls.
“You wanna play hunter or waste time flexing for someone who already knows your stats?” I take a step back, arms open. “Go ahead. Stick around. Babysit the bloodstain in the mask.”
I gesture at Prey #9. “While the prize slips right through your sweaty, dick-swinging fingers.”
The only sound is the low static of his moral dilemma frying on a circuit board. He doesn’t move.
I grin beneath the mesh. “Didn’t think so.”
One step. Two. And then I vanish—back into the trees, into the dark.
He can follow if he wants.
But he’ll be chasing a ghost.