Page 66 of Primal

Sandwich Guy freezes mid-sip. “Think she’s okay?”

“Looks like she passed out or something.”

Or something.

The PA system gargles to life: “Evening, gentlemen. Or is it morning already? Anyways, we’ve got a breach in the Control Room. Lethal response protocol initiated.”

Chairs scrape back. They both turn to me.

Neck Tat leans in over my shoulder, squinting at the monitor. “How the hell did you pull up admin logs?”

Sandwich Guy lunges. Yanks the mask off my face.

Neck Tat’s hand drops to his baton. Jaw clenched. “Sneaky bastard. You gotta be #13, huh?”

“Yeah, and you just failed the tutorial.”

Chapter Fourteen

Ipull out my $29.99 Halloween Special. Cheap. Light. Still deadly.

Neck Tat’s baton freezes mid-swing.

“Easy there, bud,” Sandwich Guy says, fingers hovering over his radio.

It’s just for show. They won’t call for help. Not because they can’t—they don’t even know the lines are jammed—but because they’re doing the math every minimum-wage grunt knows by heart.

One murdered player? Lawsuit.

Two dead staffers? Union grievance.

Let Ghostface #13 walk? Fired … but alive.

Neck Tat edges around the desk, toward a dented metal cabinet in the corner.

“You try anything, I’ll carve the next message straight into your thigh. Ask Trevor how that feels.”

Neck Tat stops moving, throat bobbing. Yeah, they read the injury report.

“Or I could go for the femoral. Takes four minutes to bleed out. Plenty of time to watch you realize you picked the wrong fight.”

Camera 9 flickers to Jessica again. Just a heartbeat but enough. They both catch it.

“The fuck did you do?” Sandwich Guy reaches for his radio again.

“Not me. But go ahead, hit that button. Explain to management why you let a killer waltz in here. Or better yet, call the cops. I’ll be gone before they arrive. But you?” I nod at the monitors. “You’ll be starring in the killer’s next home movie.”

Sandwich Guy finally stabs his radio button—

Camera 9 switches to Neck Tat, standing right where he is now, scratching his ass.

Timestamp: [NOW].

His hand freezes. “What the fuck?”

“Comms are fried,” Sandwich Guy mutters. He lunges for the phone.

Click. Click. Click. His fingers leave a mayo-smear on the receiver—greasy prints over the numbers.