Page 30 of Kill Feed

“It is truly horrific,” Selene chimes again, turning her gaze toward Julian, “and to think, after all that, they let his father walk out of prison years later on good behavior. Just for the man to take his own life weeks later.”

“I’m honestly impressed, Adrian,” Kamala adds bluntly, “that you were able to take something so tragic and channel it into your work, to share it publicly in your portfolio.”

Shared it publicly on my portfolio?

That fucker.

My teeth grind together, but I force my hands to relax and straighten my back, keeping my face neutral despite the suffocating pressure in my head.

Julian smirks suddenly. “I don’t know how you do it, kid. I wouldn’t be able to handle something like that. If it were me… I’d have offed myself years ago.” He crosses his arms over his chest, shaking his head with half-assed bewilderment.

“What,” the word finally scrapes out of me through gritted teeth.

Selene slams the portfolio down on the table, hands clasping together, smirking like she just won a round in some tragic trivia game that is my childhood.

“This settles it then!” she exclaims, eyes sparkling. “Even though you’ve never done any ‘spooky’ shoots before, the fact that you’ve lived… and survived… your own experience, and can integrate that into your work to truly understand the horror of Halloween, shows me everything I need to know. So, with that. Adrian Summers, you’re hired.”

Hired? Fucking hired?

My throat collapses, her words like hands around my trachea. My mind goes blank, filling with nothing but their exasperated smiles and late-night dinner-like chatter, as if that door I had sealed shut wasn’t just ripped open.

After what feels like an eternity of relentless chatter and forced laughter from them, I leave Phantom Productions with one goal: get through those glass doors and the fuck out.

With my body still rigid like a drawn bowstring, I twist the throttle and drive off, shaking more than I’d like on a motorcycle.

My breaths come too fast, too shallow, each inhale catching in my chest. The city smears into streaks of tangerine and amber as I tighten my grip on the handlebars, leather creaking beneath my fingers.

My vision narrows, edges curling like smoke. I tell myself to hold on, to just make it home, but the panic claws at my throat, and suddenly the thought of stepping through the apartment door feels like scaling a fucking mountain.

I spot a quiet stretch of road lined with trees, the autumn leaves rustling softly in the wind, and my hands tremble so badly I almost don’t make the turn signal in time. I force the bike to the side, the tires crunching over gravel, kicking the stand out before finally killing the engine. Silence hits me like a wave, but it doesn’t soothe, magnifying everything instead.

I slide off the seat, my legs unsteady, shaking as though they belong to someone else.

A pulse hammers against my throat. Heat prickles under my skin, then flips to ice, a treachery of flesh I can’t command.

My vision fractures at the edges as colors bleed into one another. I catalog the symptoms like evidence at a crime scene, but this isn’t fear. It’s fucking sabotage. My body conspires against me, and I loathe it for showing weakness I never agreed to.

This will pass. It always does.

After a few ragged breaths, the panic attack releases its grip from my bones. I’m finally able to take back control of my own body.

I lean against the tree for several minutes, forehead pressed to the rough bark. I breathe in and out slowly just a few more times before collecting my discarded helmet, wiping off the damp leaves and dirt. I drag my body towards my bike, sliding back onto its green and black exterior, hands still trembling on the grips.

I’m exhausted, but I manage to ground myself.

I start the engine again, ready to speed back to where my comfort is, ready to just go home.

I stay hunched over the handlebars for just a few more seconds, forehead pressed to the grip, before my phone rings, buzzing relentlessly. I pull it out, and the name on the screen makes my stomach twist. It’s the last godamned name I want to see right now.

A flare of anger bursts through me, hotter than the panic just moments ago. My hands shake with pure, unfiltered rage burning through them. I glance at the screen again.

I check the time as the phone continues to ring. It’s already past five in the afternoon. That means Lucas is already home. Probably lounging, probably fucking grinning like he’s done me some great favor.

I stuff the phone back into my pocket, teeth gritting so hard it strains my jaw.

This… this is all his fault.

I put my helmet on and kick the bike into gear. The engine roars like it’s answering my anger, and I peel off down the street. The tires chew into the asphalt, the world blurring past in streaks. I don’t slow for stop signs, nor do I care about the red lights. I am in complete tunnel vision.