Page 69 of Kill Feed

“That’s not the point!” He runs a hand through his pitch-black hair, breath still uneven. “God, you can’t just– you can’t do that. You could’ve given me a heart attack.”

“You’re twenty-three.”

“Still not the fucking point!”

He’s shaking slightly. Adrenaline hijacking his body and dilating his pupils. I rest my hands loosely at my sides.

“I need information,” I say.

“That’s your opener?” He lets out a strangled laugh. “You ambush me on a jogging trail and say you need information?”

“Yes.”

“About fucking what?” Leo spits, glare sharpening.

“Kill Feed.”

The words land like a dropped glass on concrete, and he freezes on impact. His body goes completely still. His eyes flick away for half a second. “Why,” he says carefully, “are you asking me about that?”

And that’s exactly how I know he has the information I need.

“You reacted strangely when it was mentioned that night at the bar,” I say evenly. “You avoided eye contact and kept yourself mostly out of the conversation.”

He scoffs. “So now you’re profiling people?”

“You’re not subtle.”

He laughs again, louder this time, the sound strained and thin. “Okay, wow. This is insane. You think because I didn’t want to talk about some stupid dark web rumor that I’m… what? Involved?”

I don’t blink, and he notices.

“You grabbed me over a conspiracy theory?” he continues. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Xavier was investigating something,” I reply placidly, already decided on how much I will let him in on. “He’s dead.”

Color drains from his face instantly.

“D-dead?” he says quickly. “I thought the guy was missing. Jesus, fuck- Don’t bring me into this.”

“You think it’s unrelated?”

“I think you’re losing it.”

His breathing speeds up again, but this time it's anger layered over fear.

“I go for a run,” he continues, voice rising before forcing it back down, “and suddenly I’m in some thriller interrogation scene because you– what… watched too many crime documentaries?”

“I mapped your route from your socials.” The words slip out casually, ignoring the spiral he is caught in. I don’t have time for him to be dismissive, so informing him how serious I am, exposing the lengths I’ll go, will get him to talk and tell me the truth.

He stares at me. “You what?”

“You’re pretty predictable. I can keep following you until I get the answers I need.”

“That’s not-” he stops. “That’s creepy.”

“It’s public.”

“That doesn’t make it not creepy!” He rubs both hands over his face. “Jesus Christ.” For a moment, he actually looks like he’s reconsidering every past interaction we’ve had. Which is now officially two. “You need help, man.”