The barrel of the shotgun glinted faintly under the sickly silver wash of moonlight. Its steel mouth pointed straight at Aubrey's chest. The figure in the skim mask didn't twitch, didn't breathe—or at least not in any way that sounded human. The faint mechanical whirr beneath his words revealed the artificial rasp of a voice box.
Casey stood beside Aubrey, rooted in place. "You're him," Aubrey said, forcing the words out, her throat tight, her courage clinging to fraying threads. "You're the Azaqor killer."
The skim mask fellow tilted his head with a slow, unnatural patience, like a predator savoring a cornered prey. Then came the voice—metallic, warped into the mocking timbre of an old cunning man, raspy with age yet sharpened with glee.
"Wrong, little lamb," the voice crooned. "The real Azaqor killer walks elsewhere. I am merely… a follower. A loyal hound to the big boss."
The masked man tapped his chest with gloved fingers, as if proud of the allegiance. His shirt—a grotesque pattern of blotched crimson and spirals—shifted as the man with the camera kept recording, his lens trained on every trembling breath Aubrey took.
The skim mask fellow cocked the shotgun. His voice slipped into a darker tone, thick with venom. "And I don't like the nonsense dripping from your mouth. Best we fix that."
Aubrey's breath hitched. The trigger began to tense beneath the fellow's finger.
But before the world could explode into thunder, a fist struck from the side.
Elijah barreled in from the dark like a hammer of salvation. His punch cracked against the masked man's jaw, the force sending him stumbling sideways. The shotgun clattered from his grip, skidding across gravel and weeds.
"Run!" Elijah's voice roared with command, raw urgency cutting through the night. "Aubrey! Casey! Go!"
Casey didn't hesitate—she seized Aubrey's wrist, dragging her into the black maze of trees. Branches lashed at their arms, brambles tore their jeans, but the only thought pulsing in Aubrey's mind was escape, escape, escape.
The night swallowed them. Leaves snapped underfoot. Then—sudden betrayal. Aubrey's toe caught on a hidden root. She pitched forward, skull cracking against damp earth. White pain burst behind her eyes. Her last image was Casey's outline fleeing deeper into the trees, her hand slipping free like smoke.
Darkness.
---
When Aubrey woke, the world was wet with silence. Her head throbbed with a bruise blossoming above her brow. The forest loomed around her, endless and empty. Casey was gone. Elijah was gone. The shadows closed like a fist.
She staggered upright, hugging herself against the creeping dread. Every sound—the whisper of leaves, the groan of branches—was an enemy. Yet she moved, searching, whispering Casey's name into the void as if hope might answer back.
The woods funneled her to the edge of a sluggish river, its waters black under the moon. She bent low, cupping a handful to soothe her burning throat.
Crunch.
The sound was unmistakable—the brittle snap of leaves crushed under weight. Aubrey froze. Slowly, she turned.
Across the riverbank, half-veiled in fog, the skim mask fellow stood. His gloved hand fisted into Elijah's shirt collar, dragging his limp body as though he weighed nothing. Elijah's head lolled, unconscious.
The artificial voice box sputtered and shifted tones with a grotesque playfulness. First, a whining granny, all nasal complaint:
"Mercy me… this chump is dreadfully heavy. My back, my poor bones…"
Then it twisted into a shrill, giddy child's voice, high-pitched and gleeful:
"Ooooh, but wouldn't it be fun to carve a few marks on him? Nice, deep scratches. Pretty red patterns…"
Back again to the granny, wheezing with mock exhaustion:
"Still, I'll need my favorite instrument… mustn't forget my darling tools…"
Aubrey crouched behind a thicket, bile rising in her throat. Every hair on her arms stood stiff. The fellow's grotesque playacting sent needles into her spine.
But fate betrayed her. Her heel pressed into brittle glass—an abandoned bottle under leaves. It cracked.
The skim mask fellow's head snapped up. Slowly, mechanically, he turned. The mask stared directly at Aubrey's hiding place.
Aubrey's heart detonated in her chest. Cold fire shot through her veins. Every instinct screamed one command: run.
She bolted. Branches lashed. Her lungs burned. Behind her, the fellow's laugh erupted—an unholy fusion of a little girl's sing-song and an old crone's cackle. Then came another voice, distorted, gutter-born and mocking like a drunken hooligan.
"Abbyyy! Why so quick, darling? Don't rush off—I've so many ideas for you. That milky skin, oh, I could paint on it for hours…"
The words slithered into her ears, sickly sweet. Aubrey's chest convulsed with terror, her mind screaming don't let him touch you, don't let him touch you.
Then came laughter—monstrous, hybrid, the shriek of a hyena tangled with the manic howls of a deranged man. It clawed the night air, chasing her even faster than his footsteps.
Steel hissed—the fellow had drawn a dagger. Its blade caught moonlight as he tore after her.
Aubrey zigzagged through the woods, leaping roots, scraping against bark. Her breath shattered into gasps. Adrenaline surged, yet her body trembled with weakness. Casey. Elijah. Please, someone.
She ducked behind a thick oak, pressing her trembling back against its bark. Her pulse thundered so violently she feared it might echo aloud.
Footsteps. Slow, deliberate.
The skim mask fellow prowled closer, dagger poised like a fang. His artificial voice shifted once more, coaxing, calling as though summoning a pet.
"Come on, Abby-girl… here, girl, here, girl… good puppy, don't be shy. Come to master."
Aubrey pressed a hand over her mouth to smother her whimper. Her body curled small, trembling. The air itself felt like it held its breath.
Then—closer. His boots dragged across leaves, each step deliberate. The dagger gleamed, raised, angled as if savoring the moment before strike.
Her heart plummeted, sinking into her stomach like a stone.
And then salvation struck again.
From the dark, Elijah emerged—not whole, not steady, but burning with ferocity. In his hands, a jagged branch thick as a club. He swung with primal force, the log crashing into the masked man's spine.
The fellow collapsed forward with a guttural grunt. His dagger slipped free, clattering against stone. He writhed, stunned.
"Come on!" Elijah barked, snatching Aubrey's hand. His grip was firm, unyielding.
Aubrey's legs obeyed his command before her mind could. They sprinted together, branches clawing at them, distance stretching between themselves and the predator.
Behind them, the skim mask fellow lay sprawled, but one finger twitched. A silent promise. He would rise again.
---
Rain began to fall.
The heavens split open, soaking the woods in sheets of icy water. Aubrey's hair clung to her cheeks, her shirt plastered to her skin. Yet she barely noticed—the adrenaline surged too sharp, too consuming.
Elijah pulled her along, his grip like an anchor against the storm. But she saw it—his shoulder, dark with blood, a wound pulsing even under the rain.
They found shelter in the hollow of a collapsed stone structure, half-buried in moss. Inside, the storm's fury dulled to a steady drum. They crouched, shivering, water pooling around them.
Elijah exhaled a ragged breath. "We need warmth. Body heat."
Aubrey's cheeks flamed even in the cold. Her first instinct was to protest—but the trembling in her limbs betrayed her need. Wordless, she leaned in. Their arms wound around one another, hands clasping.
Her face burned pink as her cheek brushed his jawline. Elijah held her without hesitation, as though it were necessity, not intimacy. Yet Aubrey's heart refused such detachment.
She glanced at his shoulder, worry sharpening her voice. "Your wound…"
He shrugged, wincing but dismissive. "It's nothing."
"No, it's not." Aubrey tore a strip from her sleeve, pressing the fabric gently against the wound. Her hands lingered, trembling. Their eyes met—his calm, hers storming with emotion.
In that moment, his lips seemed impossibly close. Soft, shaped, dangerous. Aubrey's thoughts spiraled, her chest fluttering. How do they taste?
Her blush deepened, betraying her. Elijah noticed. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned closer.
N-no… this is wrong… but Chloe isn't here. For once… can't I be selfish?
Before the thought ended, his mouth met hers.
Her eyes widened in shock. His lips were warm, intoxicating. Fireworks of sensation detonated in her chest. Butterflies rioted in her stomach. Breath abandoned her lungs.
Then Elijah deepened the kiss. His teeth caught her lower lip, drawing a gasp. His tongue slid past, stealing her air, her reason. Aubrey melted, overwhelmed, until she kissed back with desperate abandon.
The storm roared outside. Rain lashed trees, rivers swelled, thunder murmured like distant drums.
Within the hollow, two souls clung together, their kiss both salvation and betrayal.
And yet, in the shadows nearby, someone watched.
A lens glimmered faintly. A camera recorded, unseen.