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 I do.
Because the patterns are up there. And right now, River Quinn’s pattern is off.
I open another screen. Onion browser. The one with access to the forum Juno found last spring. The vigilante one. Where justice doesn’t need a warrant—just rules.
I never thought I’d need to use it again. We got our revenge. Saved Juno. Exposed the masked cowards who killed her sister.
But evil doesn’t retire. It just changes usernames.
I tap out a new user credential. New key. New alias.
Mask2.0
No. Too stupid.
I delete it.
MakeThemCry
Too obvious.
Then I type: Mask
Because that’s what I am. The update you didn’t see coming. The fix you didn’t ask for. The line of code that changes everything.
I send the test ping to Arrow’s backup server. He replies in seconds.
ARROW: You’re live.
GAGE: Just like old times.
ARROW: Don’t fall in love with her.
GAGE: Too late.
I drop my phone face-down and scrub my hands over my face.
Across the aisle, River’s shoulders are tense. She’s typing with the fury of someone coding her way out of a sinking ship. I’d give anything to walk over there, tilt her chin up, and say I’ve got this. You don’t have to fight alone anymore.
Instead, I open a new tab. And I start planning.
If they want to make her cry, fine.
I’ll beat them to it.
And I’ll make them beg for it.
THREE
RIVER
I haven’t blinked in forty-seven seconds.
My eyes are dry. My fingers ache from gripping my phone. The message is still there, glowing in the darkness of my apartment like a dare.
I can make them cry.
Beneath it, a second one just arrived.
But only if you’re willing to break your own rules.
My first rule? Don’t trust anyone.
My second? Especially not people who offer help without a face.
I’m sitting in the middle of my living room floor, hoodie zipped to my chin, legs crossed like I’m pretending to be calm. The shadows from the TV flicker across the walls like something alive. I forgot I left a horror game paused—pixelated blood still smeared across the frame like a warning. Ha-ha. Thematic.
I don’t know why I clicked the message. Or the link. Or the second link that required the VPN I bought on impulse. But I did. And now I’m in a chat room that shouldn’t exist, talking to someone called Mask, who claims he can fix this.
Whatever this is anymore.
I start typing:
Who are you?
Three dots appear. Then vanish. Then reappear. Then:
Wrong question.
Okay. That’s not creepy at all.
I try again.
What do you want?
To make them cry. Like they made you.
I hate how my chest tightens when I read that. Like it’s echoing in a place I’ve kept locked up too long. It’s not the kind of sympathy you get from HR or your mom or friends who try to help by saying just ignore them. It’s raw. Ugly. Accurate.
But I don’t work for free.
My rules. Or no deal.
Of course there are rules. There are always rules.
I glance at the clock. 1:04 a.m. My phone buzzes again—a text from a burner number.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: u up? bet ur window is ;)
I flinch. My heart kicks. The last message like that was followed by the photo. My apartment. My bike. My life.
You have ten seconds to decide.
Mask again.
I hesitate. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.
But I type:
Fine.
One word. That’s all it takes. The rules arrive instantly, like he had them queued up, and ready to go.
RULE #1: You obey me. No questions. No hesitation.
RULE #2: You tell no one. No cops. No friends. No exceptions.
RULE #3: You tell the truth. Every time. Especially when you’re afraid.
RULE #4: When I say move, you move. Even if it doesn’t make sense.
RULE #5: If you break any of the above, I disappear. And you’re on your own.
The cursor blinks like it’s waiting for a signature. I stare at the screen, then down at my hands.
My knuckles are white. I don’t remember curling my fingers so tight.
“Okay,” I whisper, then type it.
Okay.
Immediately, another message.
Good girl. Now listen carefully.
Okay, wow. There’s… a vibe.
Before I can decide how I feel about it, the next message hits.
You need to leave. Now.
I freeze.
What?
Someone is on your floor. Wrong time. Wrong reason. Go. NOW.
“Bullshit,” I whisper, standing anyway. Because suddenly my legs believe him even if my brain doesn’t. I creep toward the peephole. The hallway is empty. Still, my heart is sprinting like it knows something I don’t.
You’re messing with me.
No. I’m trying to keep you breathing. Your neighbor with the loud dog? She left ten minutes ago. Someone tried her door. They’re three doors down now. Your door is next. MOVE.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
I don’t wait. I don’t argue.
I grab my bag and shove my phone and laptop inside. I throw on my sneakers and hoodie and open the window by the fire escape. It’s a tight squeeze. My leg catches on the sill. I scrape my shin. Worth it.