Page 134 of Kill Feed

Chapter 35

Dante

“Well… this is a spectacular fuck-up.”

I rub a hand over my mouth, never taking my eyes off the monitors.

Violet light spills across the concrete floor from the screens lining the wall, washing the room in that same artificial glow. Steel beams cut across the ceiling overhead while exposed pipes disappear into dark painted corners. A long onyx sofa sits untouched behind me. Half the hunters are scattered around it and in different parts of the break room, either cleaning weapons or discussing the second game’s kills.

Business as usual.

Mine stopped being usual the moment Adrian Summers walked through those warehouse doors, slipping on a contestant’s watch.

My arms remain folded across my chest as I watch him on one of the monitors.

He’s grouped up at the far back of the warehouse, eyes flicking from camera to camera as his little friend group huddles closely by.

He’s probably replaying every conversation we’ve ever had. Every fucking thing that’s about to convince him I put him here.

I clench my jaw. If I were him, I’d come to that same conclusion too, which is a huge fucking problem. Not because Adrian wants to kill me. Hell, I’m used to that dynamic, although it’s in the past.

The problem is that this time I’d deserve it. At least from his perspective, and I have absolutely no way of telling him otherwise.

Not while the cameras are watching.

Not while Selene Whitlock is watching.

Not while every move I make is being picked apart by thousands of people. I should’ve anticipated Selene pulling something like this, if this was even her at all, but who the fuck else?

In the first game, Marcos and I chased after a guy who soon crashed his car into a lamppost, never once encountering Adrian and the rest of his friends who’d somehow landed here as well.

And I only found out he’s part of Kill Feed when I set foot in the break room after the first game, watching him rack up dollars and enemies whilst having to listen to Kieran bitch and moan about getting cut by him.

The second game was different. Sooner or later, we’d cross paths, and I was counting on it. Not that I was given grace to explain myself.

Every shove, strike, and word out of my mouth had to look convincing enough for the spectators watching through my body cam. I couldn’t protect him—not openly—but I figured Adrian would notice the gaps. The blows that never landed properly. The openings I kept giving him. Me literally tapping on the camera mounted to my torso.

He’s observant and painfully so. And yet, he missed every single sign I threw his way.

The door slides open behind me, heavy boots striking the concrete. “You don’t get to pick and choose and hoard your targets.”

Around the room, conversations taper off as attention subtly shifts in our direction. I sigh through my nose before finally looking over my shoulder.

Kieran stands in the doorway with his gas mask hanging from one hand. Without it, he looks less like a hunter and more like the kind of man who belongs in a private military company, with scars and broad shoulders straining beneath a fitted black compression shirt, exposing tattooed forearms scarred from top to bottom. A fresh bandage wrapped tightly around his left forearm.

His blue eyes settle on me, cold and accusing.

I arch a brow. “Something on your mind?”

“Every contestant is fair game,” he bites back.

“So I’ve heard—”

“I want the kid,” Kieran cuts me off. “The bratty bastard who flipped us off, crashed his motorcycle into our truck, and cut my fucking arm.”

He glances at the bandage before looking back at me. “It’s an eye for an eye.”

Before I can answer, two familiar laughs drift across the room. The twins, Yara and Yasmin—impeccably dressed in doll outfits and reapplied clown makeup contrasting their deep chestnut skin tones—saunter over, eyeing Kieran from head to toe.