WICKED GAME

Deep in the neon-lit club, I sip my whiskey, waiting for someone who’ll never show. My phone screen still glows with that message: "Aiden, don't trust a woman in red." But she’s already here. High heels shatter the light, her red coat spilling like blood across the dark. She smiles, soft and close, pressing a kiss to my cheek—her lips too cold, not human. I grab her wrist, slam her against the wall. A bottle shatters, screams erupt as the crowd scatters. “You’re not Lena.” I stare into her eyes. “The real Lena died three years ago, in a rainy Bangkok night.” She doesn’t flinch. Just smiles. Her fingertip traces slowly along her throat. “Then tell me,” she whispers, “what are you holding now—a ghost… or the hunter?” The blade clears its sheath. And then I hear it—the click of a camera shutter. I turn. In the corner, a man holds up his phone, lens pointed at us, face twisted in a grotesque grin. The livestream title burns bright: [#HuntMoment: The Last Night of an Undercover Cop and His Viper Lover] Viewers: 3,287,601. And the top comment—posted from her own account—reads: "Darling, guess who’ll make it out of this room alive?"