Page 258 of Primal

Her skin’s pale in the moonlight. Tiny silver hoop in her nipple. Her throat sliced ear-to-ear. Eyes wide. Lips parted. Her nails are packed with soil … from dragging herself?

I touch two fingers to the blood pooling beneath her. Still warm.

The cut’s too clean. Combat footage clean. The angle’s wrong for rage. Calculated. Like he’s done it before. On animals. On people. Fuck.

Where are you, Payton?

Lightning fractures the sky—

—and I see it all.

Scuffed earth. Footprints, some of them about my size. The missing player tag. Fucker didn’t just take a life. He took a trophy.

Something plastic snaps under my boot. An inhaler. The casing’s cracked, the mouthpiece shattered, but the label’s still legible:

Jessica Langley.

Albuterol. Use every 4-6 hours as needed.

I pocket the inhaler. Check my watch. 11:44 pm. Still no signal. But Payton’s out here. I know it.

I feel her—the way I always have. Through her window. Across the street. In my goddamn dreams.

The control room. Even with the jammer frying signals, those hardwired cameras must still be chewing through footage. All I need is a single frame of Payton’s hoodie. One glimpse to map the dead zones where the killer moves.

The trees blur past. I don’t hear the bastard until he’s right in front of me.

Motherfucker bench-pressed as a fetus. Wider than Trevor and twice as ugly. Rope coils around his forearm. The Bane mask is a nice touch—adds just the right amount of tryhard psychopath to the look.

“Wrong zone, Ghostface.”

I don’t slow. Just veer sideways, ready to shoulder past him.

He sidesteps, blocking me again.

“Where’s your walkie?” he asks, gaze narrowing.

“Up your ass.”

A quick once-over, and his posture shifts. Less meathead, more alert. “That blood? You hurt someone?”

“Not yet,” I mutter. “But I’ve got a spot picked out just for you.”

Then comes the crackle of velcro and plastic. All he gets is static from his walkie. “The fuck?”

“Signal’s jammed. Whoever’s doing this doesn’t want you calling your parole officer.”

He sizes me up, scowling. “You’re Hunter #13.” His voice drops to a gravel pit growl. “Group 4’s missing Ghostface.”

“And you’re blocking my fucking hunt.”

The words barely leave my teeth when a whistle slices through the trees—two sharp notes.

“Boys, boys. Aren’t you two supposed to be hunting?” She jogs toward us—petite frame poured into a ripped black tank and low-slung camo pants. Fists taped. Ears like she’s eaten more punches than protein. Black choker—NOT YOUR GOOD GIRL in blood-red studs. The tag dangling from her neck says #9. “What’s this, foreplay or a turf war?”

Bane stays square. Braced for an earthquake that hasn’t hit. His fingers twitch—imagining how to strangle me with his rope and still hit his performance cues.

“We’re conducting a cross-zone integrity check.” He doesn’t take his eyes off me. Voice just this side of official. “Protocol breach.”