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“Fuck!” I shout, the word echoing through the trees. I shove the phone back in my pocket and approach the car, peering through the window. It’s locked and I forgot to ask for the keys. Fucking hell.

I’m considering trying to break the window when a light suddenly flashes across my face, momentarily blinding me. I throw up a hand to shield my eyes, squinting into the darkness beyond the beam.

“Hello?” I call, my voice sounding small and scared even to my own ears. “Andrew?”

The flashlight lowers slightly, revealing the silhouette of a man standing at the edge of the clearing. For one wild, hopeful moment, I think it’s Andrew—that he managed to escape the masked psycho, find a flashlight and come for me. Then the light catches on something in his hand—something that gleams silver in the darkness.

A knife. A fucking knife.

My blood turns to ice. This isn’t Andrew. This isn’t even the same guy who attacked us at the cabin.

“Perfect,” a soft, cultured voice says from behind the light. “Just perfect.”

Before I can even process this new threat, the man lunges forward with unexpected speed, the knife slashing through the air where my chest had been a second before. I throw myself backward, stumbling over my own feet, barely keeping my balance. I’m tired, dirty and honestly with no patience for this shit.

“Pretty,” the man says, his voice oddly high and reedy. “So pretty in the moonlight.”

I don’t wait to hear more. I bolt, tearing back into the trees, branches clawing at my clothes and hair as I run. Behind me, the man laughs—a sound that makes my skin crawl—followed by the crunch of his footsteps as he gives chase.

“Come back!” he calls, his voice growing more excited. “I just want to take your picture! You and your boyfriend will make such beautiful art!”

We’re really out of luck tonight. What the fuck is going on? Is there a psychopath convention happening in these woods?

“You’re going to be exquisite,” he says, his voice almost reverent. “Such fear. Such life.”

The way he accentuates the words freaks me out.

My lungs are burning, my legs leaden with exhaustion, but fear keeps me moving. I need to lose this guy, need to find somewhere to hide until I can circle back to Andrew’s car or find a way to call for help.

The forest slopes downward ahead—the same hill that leads to the riverbank where Andrew and I... Where we almost...

An idea forms, desperate and dangerous. If I can lead this flashlight weirdo to the edge of the drop-off, maybe he’ll fall. It’s not much of a plan, but it’s all I’ve got. I pat my back pocket looking for the rope I’d put there, but… it’s nowhere to be found. Fuck, I must have lost it while crossing the river.

I slow my pace slightly, letting him gain on me. His footsteps are louder now, closer, his breathing ragged with excitement.

“That’s it,” he croons. “Good girl. Just stop running, and I’ll make it quick. I promise.”

I fight the urge to look back, to see how close he is. Instead, I focus on the terrain ahead, mapping the path to the drop-off in my mind. Twenty more yards, maybe less.

“I’m going to carve you,” the man continues, his voice taking on a dreamy quality that’s somehow even more terrifying than his threats. “Just a little. Enough to capture your fear. Your boyfriend, too, when I find him again. The way he ran past me earlier while looking for you... It was so beautiful. So raw.”

Fifteen yards. Ten.

He’s right behind me now, close enough that I can smell him—sweat and something chemical, like the cleaning products my mom used to obsess over. My heart hammers against my ribs, each beat sending a fresh surge of adrenaline through my system.

“Yes, run,” he calls after me, his voice carrying easily through the still night air. “The fear makes the moment more authentic!”

Five yards. Three.

I push myself harder, my legs screaming in protest. I’ve been running too much tonight, pushing my body beyond its limits, but adrenaline is a hell of a drug. Behind me, his measured footsteps still follow—not rushing, but keeping pace, like a predator who knows its prey will eventually tire.

I reach the edge and skid to a stop, whirling to face my pursuer. He’s closer than I expected, barely two feet away, his face illuminated by the flashlight he holds. He’s older than I thought—maybe mid-forties—with thinning brown and gray hair and eyes that are too wide, too bright, too focused on me.

“You and your lover make a beautiful composition,” the flashlight weirdo calls, his voice still eerily calm. “The passion, the fear, the desperation. I couldn’t have posed you better myself. You’re going to be my masterpiece.”

A chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with my wet clothes or the night air. This guy is seriously fucked up.

Think, Vivian. Think.