Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
But it doesn’t feel creepy.
It feels… safe.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
Later, I’m curled up on the oversized chair with a mug of tea. My phone buzzes on the arm of the chair.
The notifications are endless now—mentions, reposts, comment threads that refuse to die.
Even with Mason fired, the storm keeps swirling. The deepfake interview’s still out there. And every time it starts to quiet down, someone kicks the hornet’s nest again.
I scroll past a particularly vicious thread and then… pause.
And without giving myself time to second-guess, I open the private message thread I have with Mask.
ME: Are you watching me right now?
It takes a minute. Just long enough to make me feel ridiculous for even asking.
Then…
MASK: Yes.
That one word short-circuits my entire nervous system.
My cheeks heat. I press the back of my hand to them, like that’ll help.
ME: Is that not a little… stalker-ish?
MASK: If I were stalking, you’d never know.
MASK: I’m protecting.
My heart flutters, and I hate how easily that happens now. How effortlessly this man—this shadow—makes me feel like I matter.
Like I’m not alone in this war.
ME: Why do you care so much? About me?
There’s a long pause this time. I sip the tea and tell myself not to stare at the screen. Not to care.
Then—
MASK: Because they made you feel small.
Because they tried to silence you.
Because you deserved so much better.
And because no one else stepped up.
I stare at the words for a long time, blinking back a sting in my eyes.
ME: You’re not just doing this because of the threats, are you?
MASK: No.
My mouth goes dry. My thumbs hover over the keyboard, then move without permission.
ME: Then why?
MASK: You intrigue me, River Quinn.
Your fire. Your fight. Your sarcasm.
The way you drink your coffee like it personally wronged you.
I let out a startled laugh. “Okay, yeah. He knows me.” I read the message again. How does this ghost know I drink coffee like this?
MASK: I care… because I’ve been watching for longer than you know.
That should scare me. It should. But it doesn’t.
Because when Mason was whispering in the halls, trying to destroy my reputation… Mask was there.
When the internet tore me apart… Mask was the one who stepped in.
He’s not the villain. He’s my shadow shield.
And yeah, maybe I am a little bit broken for being into that.
My fingers fly.
ME: You could come here.
Right now.
No masks.
I stare at the message. I don’t send it.
Instead, I backspace it down to nothing and write:
ME: You make me feel safer than I’ve felt in a long time.
His reply is instant.
MASK: That’s the only thing that matters.
The tea’s long gone. The lights are dim. And I’m still thinking about what he said.
There’s a thought niggling in the back of my brain but I can’t connect the pieces. I blame lack of sleep. I blame stress. I blame all the men who try to make me feel small.
I hate feeling scared. I also like how Mask makes me feel brave. I think about Mask. How I found him at the perfect time. How he’s made this whole mess bearable. I try to think about where I'd be without him, and I can't even go there. Because honestly, I don’t know.
I’d probably have run back home to the small town I grew up in, Magnolia Ridge, and moved back in with my parents.
So stupid. I think about my job.
And how stupid I was to ever trust Mason Reid.
I pull the blanket tighter around me. My chest aches in that familiar way when old wounds try to scab over.
I should’ve seen it. The way Mason got weird when I started rising. When management praised me. When the NovaVision project got tagged with my name instead of his.
At first, he was passive-aggressive. Little comments about my “luck.” How I “networked really well.” How I was “so charming with the bosses.”
And then it got worse.
When I ended things, he didn’t even try to stop me. He just smiled—this cold, calculating smirk—and said, “One day, I’ll show them who you really are.”
It haunted me.
Still does.
And now?
Now I know he meant it.
Only… I can’t prove it. He’s been smart. No digital footprints, no evidence that points directly at him. Just suspicion and a gut-deep certainty that he’s not finished.
My phone buzzes again.
MASK: Sleep. I’m watching.
A chill slides down my spine—but it’s not fear.
It’s anticipation.
And longing.
And something else I don’t have a name for yet.
Maybe someday, I’ll ask him who he is.
And maybe… I’ll already know.
TWELVE
GAGE
We bait the hook with something Regent can’t resist: attention.
Arrow spins up a mirrored Cathedral node—looks real, feels real, breathes like the original board but it’s ours, every packet tagged with a tracer that sings when you hum the right frequency. Render dresses it with stolen forum skin and toxic little thread titles: The Whale Returns, Psalm88 Drop, NEW Footage—DM for link.