Page 181 of Primal

Payton sent me the clip with zero context. Just a skull emoji and the quote:

‘He said it was holy water. I believed him. It worked.’

Eleven out of thirty prey dead. Twelve, if you include Lana. Not that anyone’s lighting a candle for her.

I chuck the notice into the garbage.

The TV competes with Max slamming cupboards upstairs. Mom probably hasn’t left the couch all day.

I flop back onto the mattress—one leg bent, the other stretched.

Everything hurts.

It gets bad on days like this. When the past sneaks up and the only cure is sleep. Even that comes with nightmares.

Usually, it’s Payton. Bloody. Broken. Begging for her life.

There are also memories I didn’t make. The ones where I walk out those gates with Payton in my arms, Wesley and Kristy beside us.

But every time, I’d wake up hollow—when we fucking won.

My hand finds the bottle by the mattress. I crack it open, shake two pills out.

The label reads:

PRN—Do Not Exceed Six In 24 Hours.

I toss both in. Let the chalky-dissolve hit my throat. Chase it down with tepid water.

Five minutes to kick in. Long enough to sit here, trying not to hate myself for failing. For leaving a part of me in that hellhole with her.

For losing the girl who saved my life—

Even though I never really had her to begin with.

Payton Reed was just another part of my fucking mask.

The ceiling tiles swim. I count the cracks like stars. Five. Ten. Twenty.

… fifty.

This is what dying feels like, little fox.

***

knock. knock.

The basement window’s gone dark. No moon or streetlamp. The kind of night that swallows everything.

I groan and shift upright. Limbs leaden. Mind cotton-packed.

“Kade! Open up. You got a visitor.”

Max, with his eleven-year-old smugness.

I drag myself to my feet—joints popping, shirt stuck to my skin.

I crack the door.