Page 138 of Kill Feed

He stands motionless, eyes dark and face neutral as hell as he watches Amani and Lucas move over to the faux bar table, looking like they are on the verge of tears, but whether that is concern for Adrian or relief that they are not eligible to get fucking shot remains a mystery.

“Those who are lambs or wolves may now claim their place at the poker table and place their cards face down in front of them.”

My only hope now is that Adrian’s a wolf. Like that even fucking matters because the odds of him still getting shot either way are still fifty-fifty.

“¡Hostia!” Marcos seethes through his teeth despite remaining incredibly calm. Looks like we’re one in the fucking same at this point. His little boyfriend is also at the poker table with his card face down. What a fucking joke.

“Players, you now have three minutes to convince the Shepherds why you should or should not be chosen to reveal first.”

The voice announces.

“I’ll save everyone some time,” the guy with the copper hair exclaims with a crooked grin plastered on his face. “I’m a Wolf, and I’ll shoot anyone who decides to target me.”

Pffft. Bold, and we’re barely two minutes into this game, yet he fails to realize that his threats can backfire. He isn’t the only wolf in the room. They’re split in two.

There are five wolves and five lambs around that poker table. Those who have religiously watched Kill Feed throughout the years will know that.

The game isn’t rigged, but the deck of cards is not like normal playing cards, and that is exactly why Kamala herself is in the room with us along with her quiet authority. The only thing left for questioning is who got what card.

“Is that so?” a player laughs, pointing at himself. “Because I’m a Wolf too.”

A woman across the table shakes her head. “You could be lying; maybe you’re a lamb but don’t want to be targeted.”

She taps the card in front of her. “I can guarantee that mine is a Queen.” And within seconds, the room erupts with all the players around the poker table claiming to be wolves. I should laugh at that, but I’m unable to find any enjoyment from this chaos as my eyes keep drifting back to Adrian, who still hasn’t uttered a word.

“I’m a Wolf,” Leo suddenly claims, and I’m almost caught off guard. The guy with the copper hair—Mason, I believe is his name—sweeps his gaze across the table before looking directly at the Shepherds.

“Vote for me,” he finally says with his confidence filling the room. “If I’m lying, you’ll know immediately.”

The Shepherds exchange uncertain looks. Even Amani glances at Lucas, seemingly fully invested. Neither of them, however, looks like they want the vote to go to Mason.

The mechanical voice chimes once more, declaring that the convincing time is over and the decision now falls to the shepherds alone as they huddle close and discuss their pick in hushed tones. Thirty seconds later, they separate. “The Shepherds have reached a unanimous decision.”

Kamala moves over to them, and by the looks of it, both Amani and Lucas don’t seem happy with the conclusion to which the vote is going.

Kamala nods once before stepping back. “The first player to reveal is Mason.”

A satisfied smile spreads across the man’s face. It’s exactly the outcome he’d been hoping for, and without wasting any time, he flips his card over.

The Queen of Hearts.

A wolf.

A few players at the poker table curse under their breath, and even from this distance and angled view, I can see the sweat breaking out on their foreheads. Shit, I think mine too.

Kamala picks up the revolver from the drinks tray near the door she emerged from before retrieving a single brass cartridge from a small black case resting beside it.

With practiced movements, she presses the cylinder release, and it swings open. One bullet slips neatly into a chamber before giving the cylinder a sharp spin with her thumb.

The chambers blur, then she snaps it closed with a firm click, offering the revolver to Mason, and he takes it almost reverently.

“Now...” he slowly raises the gun, “I wonder who gets the honor of being tonight's opening act.”

The barrel drifts toward the first contestant, and she stiffens immediately. Then the next, and then another. Every movement of the revolver pulls another breath from the room, only widening Mason’s grin.

The gun stops on a skinny boy near the end of the table.

The kid’s face drains of color as he pleads, “P-please…”