Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Jaxen
Night one
T he kill is quiet, but not bloodless. I wouldn’t want it to be. Naomi’s lips are still parted, like she died mid-prayer. There’s some brittle whisper of “please” caught between her teeth.
As if someone up there was fucking listening.
Her eyes are stuck open, green and glassy, lashes wet with tears that never hit the ground. She’s still warm when I let her drop. Still twitching when the pulse in her neck gives up. The red blink of her wrist-cam reflects in the puddle beside her face recording nothing but aftermath now.
Me , fading into the dark like a ghost with teeth.
She begged. Of course she did. They always do when they realize I’m real.
I found her in that little clearing with the vines, the one near the east fence line where the signal dips just enough to feel isolated but not enough to call it safe.
She heard the rustle too late. Turned around too slow.
By the time her eyes found me, I was already behind her.
No theatrics, or speech. Just the fucking blade—up and in, low under the ribs, dragging sideways.
She clawed at my chest like nails could undo it.
Sobbed like she thought it would matter.
Like it wasn’t already over.
Auburn hair tangled in my fingers when I tilted her head back. Wavy, soft, sticking to the sweat on her cheeks as she slid to her knees. I let her fall slowly. Watched the light glitch in those green eyes. Now, her body’s draped like a discarded puppet on the forest floor.
All strings severed.
All chances gone.
I don’t look back. I never do.
Drone three's already circling her body like a vulture with a 4K lens. They’ll cut the footage wide—soft light through the trees, blood dripping slow, her eyes wide and glossy. The leaves drink it up like they’ve been thirsty all year.
Cinematic as fuck.
I drop into the trees again, boots sinking into soft ground. Every movement is clean. Precise. No wasted sound. I’ve seen warzones quieter than this forest, but the thing is… they still don’t get it.
They scream like prey, but not the smart kind. The panicked kind. Loud. Clumsy. Like they think screaming helps. It doesn’t.
It just narrows the radius.
I toggle my interface, flicking through wrist-cam feeds. The feeds ripple with movement.
Milo’s voice is buzzing in my ear again.
“Slow down, Jax. We’ve got cameras to feed. Let ‘em run a little.”
I ignore him.
Naomi was just the warm-up. I’m not here for them .
I’m here for her .
Feed 12 pulses on my interface—Liv.
She moves like she knows she’s being watched. There's no fear in the way she carries herself, just caution.
For now.
Unlike the others.
She didn’t see Naomi die. But I know she heard her scream. It sliced through the woods like a flare in pitch black. It was the kind of sound that rewires your instincts. I rewind the feed, slow it down, because I want to watch the exact moment it hits her.
There .
Her breath stutters. Her body flinches. Her head jerks toward the sound, but she can’t see anything beyond her firelight. Her eyes go wide—too wide. Like she’s trying to convince herself it wasn’t what it was. That someone’s just playing. Acting . That this is still some sick game.
But deep down? She knows better.
I track the way she yanks her sleeves down, fists curling in the cuffs of that oversized shirt. Her fingers twitch—subtle—but she wraps herself in a blanket like she can hide the tremble. Like fear won’t betray her.
But fear always leaks.
She thinks it makes her look calm. Untouched.
She thinks she’s hiding it well.
But I see it all. The cracks. The fight to keep her chin up. The fury that replaces the fear because it’s easier to weaponize it than drown in it. She flips her middle finger at the dark like she thinks it changes something.
It doesn’t.
But I love that she thinks it does.
I grin behind my helmet. Low. Cruel.
“Run, little clickbait,” I murmur. “Put on the show. Pretend it matters.”
Because the truth?
I’m not just watching her.
I’m studying her.
Every twitch. Every pause. Every glance over her shoulder. She’s a livewire in a cage full of cardboard cutouts, and I’m waiting for the exact moment she sparks.
She tries to act untouched—like she’s above the fear soaking the others—but I see the tension. The cracks.
And when she snaps?
It won’t be pretty.
It’ll be art.
I could take her now. Rip through the trees and end this illusion of control she clings to.
Leave her breathless, broken, begging .
But no.
That would be too fast. Too easy.
She doesn’t need a kill. She needs a reckoning.
And I’m going to give it to her.
Milo’s voice again. “Jaxen, you’re trending. Cut to drone four—give us a stare-down. Do the fucking helmet thing. You know they love that.”
I roll my neck. “Beg for it.”
I find drone four hovering above the nearby hilltop. One snap of my fingers and I step into view, slow and sharp. My helmet glints against the light, just enough to snag attention. I tilt my head toward it. Hold the moment.
Then I grin, raise my hand, and wave.
Full-body, over-exaggerated cheerleader wave. Elbow-elbow-wrist-wrist.
Mocking.
Let the viewers eat that shit up.
I hear the drone chirp—clip confirmed. Milo will be in post already editing it for playbacks.
Masked Killer Mocks Camera. Psychopath Waves After First Kill.
Good. Let ‘em name me. Let ‘em hashtag me.
But they don’t know the half of it.
The blood on my gloves hasn’t dried yet.
I head east, deeper into the trees. Not toward Liv. Not yet. Let her breathe. Let the story unfold. Fear doesn’t spread through contact, it spreads through absence .
More feeds cycle through my interface.
Trent. Loud fucker. He still thinks this is all a prank with a twist ending. He’s rallied three girls and a musician-looking dude with long hair under a split trunk. Probably thinks he’s the lead in some survival drama.
“Stay in pairs. Stay strong. Don’t believe the hype,” Trent preaches to the group.
“It’s all showbiz.”
I drop to a crouch on a ridge above them and pull up the feeds from the nearby drones—high angles, thermal lenses, enough for a full 360 wrap. I’ve got them boxed in and they don’t even know it.
The long-haired guy mutters, “That scream wasn’t fake.”
Smart kid.
“Bro,” Trent claps him hard on the shoulder. “You think a show this big could legally let us die? It’s immersive.”
I almost laugh.
Almost .
Lamal flashes behind my eyes. The cave-in. The dark. The blood.
I reach for my cord and string it low between two trees, setting a tension trap. One misstep and Trent’s gonna eat . But not yet. I want to see if he’ll throw himself in front of the others when the panic spikes.
Spoiler—he won’t.
Guys like him always play hero. Act like they’re the heart of the group, the guiding light in the dark. But when shit hits the fan? He’ll watch every one of them die if it means one more day of protein shakes and mirror selfies.
I flip back to Liv’s feed.
She’s silent, her mouth pressed into a line, eyes sharp. Ten minutes and not a word, but her gaze tracks everything—branches, shadows, airflow. She’s learning. Adapting. Becoming .
She’s gonna be so fucking perfect by the time I’m done with her.
Snap .
A branch behind her. Not me. Not the drones. Just nature breathing.
She spins instantly, back against a rock, stance low. Hands ready.
“Good girl,” I whisper.
Back on the group feed, two contestants start arguing. Another is crying. I split the drone feeds into quadrant view and watch them all at once like a conductor before the crescendo.
The woods hum.
A beat of silence then a distorted, demonic voice crackles through the trees . “FATALITY.”
Loud. Glitchy.
Not long after comes the real voice.
Smug. Polished. Manufactured.
Milo fucking Vane.
“That’s one down, folks. And the night’s just getting started. Who’s next? Who’s watching? Who’s winning?”
The forest erupts.
Screams. Scrambling. Like someone kicked a fucking anthill.
Three of them dart deeper into the woods, the wrong direction. Perfect.
Milo’s voice fades. He thinks he’s the ringmaster, the face of the franchise.
He’s a fucking joke.
A prop with a receding hairline and a media contract.
I’m the real reason they’re all tuned in.
I tap Liv’s feed again.
She’s crouched low, back to a crooked tree, breath sawing in and out like she’s trying to stay silent and still but her lungs won’t fucking let her.
Smart girl.
Wrong game.
She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t reach for the camera on her wrist.
She just listens—knees drawn to her chest, back pressed to the hard rock surface behind her, breathing quiet and deliberate. She knows something’s out there.
She knows something’s getting closer.
Her black tracksuit clings to her damp skin, sweat catching in the hollow of her throat.
Strands of her dark hair stick to her temple, wild from running, from hiding.
That face, painted by God on a bender, still looks calm.
Not serene. Not hopeful. Just braced. Lips parted, jaw tight, lashes low.
There's a gold hoop glinting in her nose. Ink crawling up the visible sliver of her collar and the backs of her hands. She doesn’t need much to wreck me. She’s already done it.
There’s something about her quiet that feels louder than any of their screams.
Like she’s not just surviving.
She’s baiting me.
My fingers curl around the edge of the tablet.
Not yet. Not fucking yet.
But fuck, the urge to break the rules, to break the silence, to tear through the brush and cage her to the forest floor. To whisper against that pretty throat that the monster she’s been fearing isn’t just real… he’s obsessed .
It stings behind my teeth like static. Like a fuse sparking.
I shift my weight back into the trees, breathing through the want, grinning behind the mask like a wolf who’s already picked his lamb.
One hand wrapped around the screen. The other… restless. It won’t be long.
She’s not playing their game.
No fake crying. No alliances. No sob stories for the viewers.
And that’s what makes this art.
She’s the final act. The reason I’m hard beneath this gear and half-wild with restraint.
This one’s mine .
Keep breathing, Liv.
Keep waiting, and wondering how close I really am.
Because I’m still watching.
And we’re just getting started.