It never mattered.
None of them ever escaped.
I found all of them eventually.
I’d enjoyed finding Gina.
The way her breathing hitched when she heard me step on a branch behind her.
The way her panic charged the air, shifting from sharp to resigned when she realized I was close.
The way her shoulders shook when she tried—and failed—to hide behind a boulder far too small to conceal her.
It wasn’t just the chase.
It was the moment she understood she had never truly been out of my reach.
That recognition—raw, helpless, inevitable—was the part I savored.
I shifted slightly in my seat as applause rolled through the auditorium again. The sound thrilled me—not because of the performers, but because of the irony.
So many people were obsessed with darkness.
So few recognized when darkness sat beside them.
I smiled again.
On the stage, the podcasters waved.
They were professionals. Confident. Certain they were the ones in control of the narrative.
I almost laughed.
Part Two waited patiently, unfolding already in my mind like a well-loved blueprint. Part Two was always better. More refined. More satisfying.
The anticipation sent a pleasant jolt through me.
I glanced around the crowd, at faces flushed with excitement, minds already racing ahead to twists and revelations. I was right there among them, shoulder to shoulder, unseen. Untouchable.
No one looked twice.
My gaze returned to the stage.
The best was yet to come.
Only nobody knew that yet.
Nobody but me.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
After the lastphoto and final autograph, they regrouped backstage, relief settling over them like a collective exhale. Andi rolled her shoulders, suddenly aware of how tight everything felt—how much energy it took to stay present for that long.
A man stepped toward them from the edge of the room, moving with quiet confidence. He wore a SafeStride badge clipped neatly to his jacket, his posture relaxed but alert in a way Andi had learned to recognize.
“Hey.” He offered a hand to Duke first. “I’m Ben Callahan, SafeStride liaison.”
