Page 67 of Kill Feed

I tweak the white balance and for a second—just one—I imagine the same frame without the mask, with his blonde hair falling loose and those puppy-dog brown eyes fixed on the lens instead of hidden behind bone.

He would photograph well. Infuriatingly well.

A chime cuts through the room, my jaw tightening before I even grab my phone from the couch pillow next to me.

He’s been texting all fucking day. Things like ‘what are you doing right now? Miss me yet? I look forward to chasing you again.’

I haven’t replied to a single one.

I unlock my phone and surprise, it’s him.

Dante: “I’m at your window.”

The fuck? My body reacts before my mind does. With laptop abandoned on the coffee table, I’m already on my feet. Three strides to the window, yanking the curtain aside.

Wind pushes orange leaves into nervous spirals as a thin drizzle turns the pavement into smeared glass. But no Dante. Essentially, the street is clear. No tall figure leaning against a lamppost in the dark. No ram skull mask watching from shadows.

I let the curtain fall, and another chime comes through.

Dante: “I bet you checked the window, didn’t you, baby?”

Goddammit, I fell for that, didn’t I? I can practically see his devilish grin through the screen.

Dante: “I bet you’re fuming right now.”

This. Fucking. Asshole. If he wants to sit outside my window, real or imaginary, let him. The only way this ends is with one of us gone. And I’m done waiting to see which one it’ll be.

I move from the window to the kitchen. Pacing up and down in a calculating manner from the kitchen island to the end of the couch. Then back again. Fingers dragging at my neck.

He knows so much about me already and knows what he’s doing at all times, just as he did at Nightfall. He isn’t just a man. He’s interconnected and complex.

That’s the problem.

If I kill him blind, I create questions. Questions lead to digging, and digging leads to names. And right now, I don’t know how many names sit behind him. Which means I need leverage first.

My pacing slows as one cohesive thought takes shape in my head. Kill Feed. And then a name.

Leo. Lucas’s work buddy. That night at the bar when Lucas and Ryan brought up the livestream survival game, he shifted uncomfortably, reacting in a way that told me he knew something.

I stop mid-step.

I turn back to the couch, push the laptop aside just enough to exit the editing software. The image of Dante in the ram skull mask vanishes, replaced by my desktop. I slide down to the carpet instead of the couch, legs folding under me as the coffee table becomes a desk.

I open my business profile, go over to Lucas’s socials, and do a deep dive into his friends list, and there he is, Leo Saelee.

I click.

His profile is curated but not careful. They consist of morning jog selfies, dim pre-dawn skies, and gaming-related posts. The posts that stand out to me, however, are the ones he uploads each day at the same time. Headphones hooked over his ears as the sun barely grazes the horizon, with the same time stamp range between 5:12 and 5:28 a.m.

In one of the photos, he’s mid-stride, the buildings just waking behind him. A street sign peeks over his shoulder, clear enough to read.

I zoom in and memorize it. It seems he has a strict routine like I have in the mornings; the only difference is I don’t post mine online. But thank fuck for me that he does.

A small sound escapes me with half an exhale and half approval.

Tomorrow, before the sun rises, Leo and I are going to have a conversation.

The sky is still bruised blue when I pull into the gym parking lot.