Chapter Thirteen
The Verge’s control room sits at the heart of a low-slung security building—flickering monitors, stale coffee stink, and two staffers bored out of their skulls. One’s got a peeling neck tattoo that says ‘No Regerts.’ The other drums his fingers beside a sandwich fossilizing into sediment.
Neck Tat taps his headset mic. “Status check. Anyone playing possum out there, give us a moan.”
He sighs, slouching back. “Man. This year’s hunt is drier than my girlfriend’s texts.”
Sandwich Guy snorts. “At least last year we had that chick who stripped naked and tried to ‘negotiate’ with Leatherface.”
“Fuck, I forgot about that.” Neck Tat grins. “Dude looked so uncomfortable. Just standing there holding his chainsaw when he should’ve been sucking on those sweet-looking tits.”
I scan the monitors while they bitch—sixteen screens showing different angles of the same dead forest. Camera 7: a branch sways left. Camera 12: the same branch sways left. Same timing. Same fucking leaves.
Looping.
They’re watching reruns.
Sandwich Guy takes a bite of his petrified sandwich. “Remember the girl who pissed herself in the corn maze? Classic.”
“Or that bachelor party who brought their own gimp masks?” Neck Tat shakes his head. “Wildest part? None of ’em were even the prey.”
The infrared bloom should’ve lit Jessica Langley’s corpse up like a bonfire near Sector 4’s tree line. But there’s nothing. Just empty woods.
The speakers crackle—a wet pop of static. For half a second, Camera 9 flickers to reality: a flash of pale limbs, dark pooling liquid—
Then back to ‘normal.’
Neck Tat frowns. “The hell was that?”
Sandwich Guy shrugs. “Probably a squirrel chewing the cables again.”
Neck Tat kicks his feet up. “Hey, did Group 4’s Ghostface ever check in? Dude’s been MIA.”
“You mean #13? Nah, no sign of him.”
I could knock them out. A chokehold for Neck Tat, a keyboard to the temple for Sandwich Guy. Right now, their shitty security feeds are the only thing standing between me and Payton’s pulse slowing to a flatline.
The door creaks. Both men jerk upright like I caught them mid-handjob.
“Zone’s off-limits, Ghostface.” Neck Tat cranes his neck. “Wait, are you #13?”
“Nah,” I rasp through the modulator. “Trevor here. Sector Three’s in aftercare cooldown. Tagged two. Both safeworded.” I lift one hand and flick imaginary sweat off my forehead. “Apparently, ‘Daddy’ went too hard.”
Neck Tat cackles. “Shit. You made ’em tap out?”
“Back-to-back.” I shrug like I’m embarrassed. “Figured I’d take a breather. Hydrate. Maybe fondle your thermostat.” I gesture at the monitors. “Anyway. Thought I just saw a glitch. Better fix it before the next crybaby starts yelling about trauma.”
They frown at each other. I can practically hear their remaining brain cells clinking like rocks in a cup.
“Yeah …” Sandwich Guy squints at the monitors. “Camera 9’s been acting weird.”
“Mind if I take a look?” I lean in, close enough to make him shift. “Won’t touch your porn folder. Unless it’s good.”
Neck Tat snorts and gestures at the keyboard. “Knock yourself out, man. But if there’s any issue, you’re gonna have to radio Tech. We’re not supposed to—”
I’m already scanning feeds. “Lost a prey earlier. Little redhead. She’s real creative with her safe word.”
Neck Tat spins in his chair. “Oh, the cute one in Sector 3? Last clean feed we got was her and Ghostface going at it around ten-thirty. Looked pretty into it.”
That was me.
Sandwich Guy leans over with his fossilized lunch in hand. “What’s her safe word? ‘Daddy, please?’”
“‘Banana split,’” I mutter, half-focused, half-lying through my teeth. “Then she projectile vomited like the fucking Exorcist.”
Neck Tat chokes on a laugh. “Jesus. We screening these people at all or just handing out tags like Coachella?”
I don’t answer. My fingers work fast, bypassing the toy-town security with a few strokes. Every group has a GPS tag log—prey, hunter, boundaries. Most of it’s redacted, but I’m not looking for rules.
I’m looking for her.
I pull up system logs. If someone’s doctoring the footage, they’re not just hiding bodies. They’re directing the goddamn show.
The truth glows red:
> FEED_OVERRIDE ACTIVE
> USER: SYSTEM
> DURATION: 69 min
The keyboard sticks—syrup-slow.
Behind me, Sandwich Guy pipes up. “So, your girlfriend’s still doing OnlyFans?”
“Sure,” Neck Tat says, voice flat like he’s naming a brand of cheap beer. “Upped her subscription tier, too.”
I tab into the hunter database, filtering by groups.
#7 - Trevor Meeks — *Sector 3 / ACTIVE*
Gear: User-supplied Ghostface mask, user-supplied combat knife
*Notes: INJURY REPORTED 21:39—Minor laceration. Resumed hunt.*
#12 - Lucas Pryce — *Sector 3 / ACTIVE*
Gear: User-supplied Ghostface mask, user-supplied knife
#15 - Ryan Voight — *Sector 3 / ACTIVE*
Gear: User-supplied Ghostface mask, standard issue knife
The killer could be Ryan or Lucas. Could be someone else entirely, wearing a Ghostface mask with a hard-on for mayhem.
I switch to the staff logs.
“Whoa, whoa—” Sandwich Guy leans over my shoulder. “How’d you … that’s payroll shit.”
I ignore him, searching for:
Costume closet access. System overrides. Last 24 hours.
22:59:07—FEED OVERRIDE INITIATED
USER: SYSTEM
DURATION: 69 min (ongoing)
NOTE: Per MGMT: Test new immersive mode.
Bullshit.
I reach for the red button under the main desk labeled EMERGENCY FEED RESET (AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY).
Neck Tat’s chair screeches as he lunges. “The fuck you think you’re doing? You hit that and we lose all—”
I slam it.
The room shudders.
Monitors blink. Then static.
The overhead lights buzz and dim.
Neck Tat groans. “Congrats, dickweed. Now we gotta—”
The screens flicker back on … showing the same damn looped footage.
“Dude,” Sandwich Guy mutters, “HR’s gonna love this.”
I stab at the keyboard, rerouting all power through the backup server.
ERROR: FEED STABILIZATION FAILED
I curse under my breath and drill into the raw backend—shit these clowns don’t even know exists.
22:59:07—ALL SECTORS FEEDS OFFLINE
TRIGGER: MANUAL HARDWIRE OVERRIDE
LOCATION: CAMERA JUNCTION BOX G7
No user ID. No network trail. Someone physically rewired the cameras. Someone who knew the layout too damn well.
“Since when do you know admin commands?” Neck Tat asks.
“Same time I learned your mom’s WiFi password,” I deadpan.
I spin back to the keyboard. The system’s bleeding warnings—red text slashing across the screen in rapid succession.
REMOTE ADMIN OVERRIDE DETECTED
trevor should’ve stayed down.
want to see what i did to him? [y/n]
A new line bleeds in at the bottom of the terminal.
hey 13. took you long enough.
I dig into the code to trace the source. It’s coming from the backbone. Root access. Someone’s rerouted admin through a hidden sublayer.
Another message types itself in:
little redhead, huh? i know where she is.
The screen glitches. Brief static. When it clears, the monitors flip one by one—showing live feeds.
Payton. Darting through the trees.
Cameras switch—
Someone in a Ghostface mask dragging a body by the ankles.
A paused frame of me … from earlier tonight. Watching. Hesitating. Like I did nothing at all.
let’s play a game, ghostface
find her before i take her face
The smiley face disintegrates, pixel by pixel.
I snap my head toward the two meatheads. “You guys know where Junction Box G7 is? The camera feeds are glitching—I need to reboot the line manually.”
Sandwich Guy blinks like I just asked him to solve a riddle. “You mean like … outside?”
“Yeah,” I say, already standing. “If I don’t get eyes back, we’re flying blind.”
I don’t give a shit about the system. If I can reset the cameras from the source, maybe—just maybe—I can lock back onto Payton.
Sandwich Guy scratches his neck. “Got no clue. Sorry, man. Could’ve asked Steve if he was still around.”
Neck Tat, eyes darting between me and the monitors, chimes in, “Yeah, Steve would’ve known for sure. Dude was always bragging about ‘black ops shit.’ We thought he meant COD.”
“Who’s Steve?”
“Our tech guy,” Neck Tat says, “Got canned last year for stealing footage. Management kept it hush-hush.”
I return to the keyboard. The system’s gutted—layers rerouted, half the functions grayed out—but some of the admin backend is still intact.
Personnel → Archived Staff → Terminated.
The page loads like it’s limping through molasses.
STEPHEN D. MADDOX
Alias: Steve
Position: Systems Engineer
Status: Terminated–Unauthorized data extraction / breach of NDA
Flagged: Red Level Termination—No Severance / No Re-entry / No Exceptions
Photo: [DATA CORRUPTED]
Background:
Former military—Signals intelligence.
Honorably discharged.
Recruited post-service for tactical systems integration.
Access level: High-tier dev ops, legacy zones, deep-stack architecture.
Notes:
Terminated for unauthorized extraction of sensitive footage. Further details classified.
The feed flickers—and one by one, cameras snap to life again. No control from my end.
One of them shows Payton.
Running.
Another displays a hallway. Empty. Until the image rewinds itself five seconds. Then again. A glitch on loop. A breadcrumb.
The screen flickers once more—and a message appears.
you’re getting warm.
keep digging and she’s next.
I grip the desk. Over my dead body.
Camera 9 flickers.
Jessica’s slouched against a tree, head lolling toward the lens.
Staring.
Then—gone. Back to empty woods.
Neck Tat’s coffee cup hits the floor. “What the actual fuck? Who was that?”
Sandwich Guy freezes mid-sip. “Think she’s okay?”
“Looks like she passed out or something.”
Or something.
The PA system gargles to life: “Evening, gentlemen. Or is it morning already? Anyways, we’ve got a breach in the Control Room. Lethal response protocol initiated.”
Chairs scrape back. They both turn to me.
Neck Tat leans in over my shoulder, squinting at the monitor. “How the hell did you pull up admin logs?”
Sandwich Guy lunges. Yanks the mask off my face.
Neck Tat’s hand drops to his baton. Jaw clenched. “Sneaky bastard. You gotta be #13, huh?”
“Yeah, and you just failed the tutorial.”