It synced with the frantic, terrified beat of my heart.
"No one touch her,"a voice on the recording sneered."Disgusting."
"Stop it!" I screamed, curling into a ball on the kitchen floor. "Stop it! Turn it off!"
The drones buzzed closer, tapping against the glass like moths trying to get to a flame.Tap. Tap. Tap.They were filming me. They were getting the reaction shot. "Reclusive Author Breaks Down Again." "Ten Year Reunion Tour."
Why? How?
Anders said he scrubbed it. He said he killed the links. He said he built a digital firewall that no one could breach.
The firewall.
A cold, sick clarity washed over me, displacing the panic with something far sharper and crueler.
Anders knew the security protocols.
Daniel knew the layout of the house.
Simon knew the exact emotional buttons to push to make me shatter.
They had been here. They had beeninside.
I looked at the satellite phone lying on the floor where I had dropped it.
Two hours.
Anders had been so insistent.Efficiency.Strength in numbers.They all had to go. They couldn't leave one person behind to guard me? Not even Simon? Not even Daniel?
We have to resupply.
No. They had to clear the blast radius.
The timeline illuminated in my mind like a crime scene under a blue light.
The arrival. The perfectly timed breakdown of the car. The forced intimacy. The way they had peeled me open, layer by layer, until I was raw and exposed. Simon’s sketches, capturing the "truth" of me. Daniel’s voice, learning the exact frequency that made me compliant. Anders’ data mining, getting access to every password, every account, every secret I had.
They hadn't been fixing the leaks. They had been cataloging the assets.
And then, this morning. The rush to leave. The sudden need to be gone.
"Ten minutes," I whispered, the realization tasting like copper and ash.
They had been gone for ten minutes. Just enough time to get down the access road. Just enough time to signal the van that the coast was clear.
It was a setup. It was the long con.
The "Pack" wasn't real. It was a production team. T.L. Rose was the ultimate IP, the golden goose, and they needed the climax of the reality show. They needed the footage of the breakdown to sell the game, to sell the movie, to sell the lie.
Unless you beg.
The memory of Daniel’s voice twisted in my gut like a knife. He had made me beg. He had made me open the door. He had wormed his way into my bed and my body to ensure that when they finally destroyed me, I would be soft enough to break completely.
"Help me... someone please help me..."my teenage voice wailed from the speakers outside.
The drones buzzed louder, sensing movement, sensing the prey.
I couldn't stay in the kitchen. The kitchen was glass. The kitchen was on display.
