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Then there are the Watchers.

The people with more money than morality.

And on top of that, they can ‘sponsor’ contestants, reward performances they enjoy, and shape the games from behind their screens. Survival isn’t enough. You have to entertain them.

The contestants come next.

People who willingly buy a ticket for the chance to play. If they’re selected, they’re approached during Phantom Productions’ opening Halloween event—Nightfall—by scare actors who then proceed to give them a code to scan or some shit. This code gives this death survival game access to their phones at any given moment, and all further information goes on from there.

Then there are the hunters…

They’re part of the machine, and their job is simple: hunt, kill, entertain.

Kill Feed runs once a year over Halloween and consists of five games. Survive them all, and the prize isn’t just money. It’s a place on the other side of the mask.

My brain feeds on the information in a continuous loop, regurgitating the same inevitable outcome. I’m in way over my head.

Killing Dante seemed so minuscule before. Now, however, I need to take into consideration that the man is involved with a highly advanced and intricate system that involves bloodshed by the masses. All while also keeping in mind that he has killed many times before.

Still, he's a thorn in my side, and I’m determined to yank him out. It’s him or me. So, I need to be smart about this. There are hundreds of ways to eliminate him. Like pushing him from a considerable height. It could easily look like an accident, unless someone sees the struggle…

Blunt force trauma is an option, but it requires time. It creates noise, and I’m not in the mood for a cleanup. Drowning could be it, but there’s no convenient body of water without witnesses, and the body could easily resurface.

Poison’s out of the question. It’s traceable, and it requires consumption… or a needle. And access to actual fucking poison.

Every scenario fractures under scrutiny. If I’m sloppy about it, I don’t just get police attention. I get no other than Selene Whitlock on my doorstep and most likely the whole of the Kill Feed operation on my ass. And that’s a variable I can’t measure yet.

What I can measure is the sunlight pouring through the towering industrial windows, slicing across the polished concrete floor in pale rectangles. Canvases lean against exposed brick walls, unfinished sculptures crowd one corner, and extension cords snake between lighting rigs and tripods scattered throughout the space.

It’s messy, but purposefully so, and I prefer it this way.

A white backdrop hangs from a steel beam while I adjust one of the softboxes, angling it a few degrees higher before stepping back to judge the shadows.

Around the studio, a handful of other photography students work on their own assignments. Someone argues with a model about posing. Another group struggles to assemble a reflector. Their conversations blend into a constant murmur that fades into the background the moment I pick up my camera.

A sharp knock echoes through the warehouse, and I glance over just as it swings inward.

Amani steps inside carrying a brown paper bag in one hand and two water bottles in the other. She spots me almost immediately, and a grin stretches across her face. “Hey, stranger.”

I set my camera down on the table as she waltzes closer without another word and hops onto the edge of the workbench beside my equipment, placing the bag between us.

“I brought lunch.” She slides it toward me. “I figured you’d forget to eat.”

That, and among other things, has become a bit of an issue. Having to look over my shoulder constantly has taken a bite out of my appetite, and it doesn’t go well with the fact that I still religiously swim laps at the gym pool every morning.

I shake my head, unable to stop the corner of my mouth from lifting as I thank her.

Amani has a habit of appearing exactly where she’s needed. Added that she never fills silence because she’s uncomfortable with it, unlike Lucas. She fills it because she enjoys being around the people she cares about.

There’s a difference.

One I’ve grown strangely accustomed to.

“So…” she says, swinging one leg idly beneath the table. “I know you’re creating masterpieces and all that, but are you allowed to take a break, or is your artistic genius on a strict schedule?”

I glance toward the lighting setup throughout the warehouse as students file in and out of the room.

“It’ll survive twenty minutes.”