Page 53 of Primal

My jaw locks. If that’s hers—

No. Not yet. Not ever.

I follow the trail. My steps are quiet. But my mind’s too fucking loud.

The stench hits first—blood, shit, some floral crap that just makes it worse.

Then I see her. Sprawled on the ground. Black corset split clean down the middle—lace severed. Not torn. Cut.

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.”