Page 213 of Primal

“You should invite someone. That cute barista you mentioned, or—”

“Wow, next you’ll be swooning over the Geek Squad. Should I set up a Tinder profile for your secret alter ego? HotMom_69.”

“Payton Marie Reed—”

I giggle. “Gotta go. Love you. Don’t commit felonies.”

I hang up to the sound of Dad yelling, “First Amendment!” and what might be a fire extinguisher.

A girl in a cropped CREW hoodie and fishnets scans my ticket, her glossy lips curling as she drags her gaze over me. “First time at The Verge, sweetheart?”

“I’m radiating virgin sacrifice energy, huh?”

She slips a thin chain over my head, the cold dog tag hitting between my boobs. 31, etched deep in matte black.

“And in case you misplace that …” She snaps a UV stamp against my wrist then flashes a small penlight over it. “Backup branding.”

“Thirty-one? Thought this was capped at thirty.”

“Guess you’re the bonus round,” she purrs. “Don’t worry—our hunters love fresh meat.”

“Kinky. I like it.” I flex my wrist, watching the ink shimmer. “What happens if I tap out?”

She leans in, her perfume all sugar and smoke. “Oh, you won’t. But if you do … well, let’s just say the wolves get creative with stragglers.”

The Verge’s main lodge is technically a barn—or at least it was before someone slapped paint over the rotting wood and called it ‘rustic chic.’

I smooth down my denim skirt—revenge fantasies for the win—and yank my hoodie sleeves past my knuckles. The cold air’s already seeped into my bones, and my sneakers are already damp from the hike here.

Kristy bounces over with two plastic cups containing something that reminds me of gas station slushie. Her tie-dye crop top clashes so hard with her neon shorts it’s almost impressive. Glitter is still clinging to her temples like war paint from today’s ‘Spooky Storytime’ with her kindergarteners.

“There you are. Damn, thirty-one? Final girl, huh?” She grins, flashing her dog tag—30. “And I thought I was lucky.”

I grab a cup and take a sip. Sweet. “Where’s Lana?”

“She’s flirting with Mr. Ghostface.”

“Oh, is he hot or just tall?”

“No idea. But he’s got a knife.”

Because obviously, that’s the baseline now.

“Okay, the vibe here is cult initiation meets Coachella. That girl by the snack table? Already cried twice. That’s our first victim.”

I follow Kristy’s gaze to a willowy blonde in a lace bodysuit and thigh-highs that defy the laws of friction.

“Five bucks says she faceplants before the first jump scare,” Lana murmurs, materializing beside me.

Her all-black outfit is performance-fabric perfection—high-neck compression top, leggings that could survive a warzone—except for the half-zipped collar, the open V exposing a hint of cleavage and a faint red mark beneath her jawline, the kind that might be from a rough night or something kinkier.

“Who’s the new guy?”

“Huh?” She sees what I’m staring at and grins. “Oh, just someone from work. We’ve grabbed drinks a few times. Nothing serious.”

I squint at her dog tag. “How come you’re number one?”

“Returning player?” She shrugs. “Who cares?”