Page 79 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

I turn to find a beta in her thirties, press badge dangling from her neck, recorder held at the ready. Her eyes flick over my masked face.

And they linger.

"I was hoping you could answer a question about the leaks," she continues, staring at me, through me, undeterred by my silence.

Behind her, Whiskey goes rigid. "Hey, wait⁠—"

My hands rise, palms out, fingers spread, the universal what the fuck?

She doesn't seem to understand the sign, but she reads my body language well enough. "The leaks of your ID. Are they real?"

My blood turns to ice.

For a moment, I can't process what she's saying.

The words register individually, but they refuse to form a coherent sentence. It's like my fucking brain has hit a wall and shattered against it.

ID.

Leaks.

My fucking ID.

The one I showed at the clinic when I got Ivy's suppressant shot. The one where my face is visible because they required me to remove my mask for verification. The one that proves the monster everyone suspects is under this gaiter is real.

My feet move before my brain catches up.

Away from eyes and cameras and FUCK FUCK FUCK⁠—

"Wraith!"

Whiskey's booming voice echoes behind me.

Heavy footsteps thunder in pursuit.

I don't stop.

Can't stop.

My vision's going red.

FUCK. NO. NOT NOW⁠—

Gripping my head and pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes, I round a corner, slam through a door with my shoulder, finding myself in some kind of storage area.

Equipment cases.

Spare sticks.

The smell of rubber and sweat.

I stop.

Brace my hands against a stack of cases.

Try to breathe.

I have to fucking calm down.