Page 1 of Boardroom Mask

PART I

THE MEET-KILL

1

JILLIAN

“I’m well acquainted

With villains that live in my bed”

— “Control” by Halsey

I’m being followed.

I don’t know how I know, but I’m certain it’s happening. It’s been there all day—this prickling at the back of my neck, this low hum of wrongness I can’t shake.

It starts on my morning commute. The R train is packed as usual. I’m wedged between a guy stuffing his face with a breakfast burrito and a woman FaceTiming at full volume with no headphones. In a just and fair world, both would be imprisoned for crimes against humanity.

But they aren’t the real issue. When I glance up from my phone, I catch someone looking at me from the far end of the car. Black baseball cap, tinted aviator sunglasses, black N95 face mask, dark jacket with the hood pulled up. It’s an ensemble that says,Don’t fucking look at me.

But as a reporter, looking at things that don’t want to be looked at is literally my job.

So naturally, I look.

He’s standing wedged in the corner, over by the doors at the opposite end of the car, one hand gripping the overhead rail. He doesn’t look away when I catch him gawking. That’s the part that gets me. Most people in New York, when you catch them looking, drop their gaze immediately. Pretend to check their phone. Suddenly find the MTA map fascinating. It’s a city full of psychopaths, and you learn quickly to avoid eye contact unless you want trouble.

Not this guy.

He holds my gaze through those dark lenses. Even with half his face covered, I sense something in him that unsettles me. It’s written in the tilt of his chin, the looseness of his grip. The posture—tall and lean like the gaunt-eyed fashion models on Milan runways, feet apart, shoulders squared, completely still and unbothered in the middle of all this rush-hour chaos.

I get a full-body chill.

It’s not fear, exactly. Or, well, yes, it is, but it’s notjustfear. There’s something ancient about the feeling that ripples through me, something that bypasses my brain entirely and bolts straight to the base of my spine. It’s prey recognition. It’s a hundred thousand years of genetic memory telling me that something with sharp teeth is watching me from the tree line.

I tell myself I’m just being paranoid. I haven’t been sleeping much since the first tip on this big story came in a couple weeks ago. It’s just been work, work, work, much of it fruitless and thankless. But as soon as I seeExclusive Investigation byJillian Pierceon the front page of theNew York TimesSunday edition, it’ll all have been worth it.

I scroll aimlessly through my newsfeed, refusing to look up until we’ve gone through the next station. My newsfeed isn’t helping calm my nerves. Every other post is some eager, horny BookTok girl clutching a paperback with a shirtless masked man on the cover, captioning itHe can kidnap me any daywith a billion heart-eye emojis and a few water splashes just in case the initial message didn’t land. It’s alldark romancethis,morally graythat,put a knife to my throat and bash my face into my headboard, please, sir. Masked stalker love interests everywhere I scroll.

I’d laugh if I didn’t currently have one of those standing forty feet away from me on the R train.

The algorithm really saidpersonalized contenttoday, huh?

My thumb swipes idly.

Next: A pretty girl with mascara streaks on her cheeks pleading,Choke me, king,set to a Billie Eilish soundtrack.

Next: The Weeknd crooning over fan edits of Jeffrey Dahmer and Ted Bundy.

Next:I think my fight or flight is malfunctioning.

Next:the way i would beg him to disrespect me.

Next:unhinged and unhinging me.

A screenshot of my For You could easily be inserted into the DSM-V. This shit is diagnosable.

None of it is for me. Thanks but no thanks. I’m a reporter; I rip masks off for a living. That’s the whole job: Find the maskedcreep, figure out what they’re hiding, drag it into the light, and write it up in twelve-point Times New Roman so a million people can read it over their morning coffee.