Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
My phone beeps…
HOOVER: Intel on HOLO-BURST shell bank. Meet 2 p.m.—and reality crashes in.
They’re not the same person.
I drop Arrow’s shirt like it’s hot lava, lurch to pick up the phone, turning the screen-side down. “Spam,” I blurt.
Arrow arches a brow—second time this week—and sets his coffee down with deliberate care. “These spammers sure love you.”
I force a laugh. “Apparently my car warranty is still expiring.”
We pretend to refocus on our laptops, but the air hums with everything unsaid. I sip my coffee. Arrow types one-handed, eyes scanning code but focus clearly elsewhere. The Ghostface mask gleams on the countertop—shiny, secretive, promising answers.
You’re going to figure this out, I tell myself. You’ll unmask Hoover. You’ll protect Arrow. And maybe you’ll finally understand why your heart beats like thunder whenever either of them steps into a room.
For now, I tuck my legs beneath me, lean just close enough to feel Arrow’s warmth, and take another sip of cinnamon coffee—sweet, spicy, confusing as hell—exactly like the collision course my life has become.
14
Arrow
It’s 1:57 p.m. The Riverside loft hums: router lights pulsing, screensavers drifting across curved monitors like lazy jellyfish, the motion camera above the door ticking its metronome of reassurance. I’ve swept the space twice—no tails, no stray pings on the perimeter node. Still, my stomach knots.
Deceiving Juno keeps me alive and kills me in the same breath.
Her footsteps clatter up the metal stairs right on cue. I put on the Hoover mask and tug a black hoodie over my head. When she opens the door, the world briefly narrows to the flush in her cheeks and the stubborn light in her eyes.
“Afternoon,” she says, and tries for breezy. It almost works. “I come bearing upgrades.”
I take the box in her outstretched hands, feigning curiosity, and flip it open. Ghostface stares up: glossy white, elongated scream, the exact brand of horror that raised me. A smaller foam insert holds a better voice modulator than the chip I’ve been using—bless her.
“You’re ditching Herbert,” she says, hands shoved into her jacket pockets, trying to look nonchalant and failing adorably.
“Hoover had a good run,” I gravel through the old modulator. I tap the Ghostface forehead with a knuckle. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Hoover. I guess the name will still stick unless you want to tell me your real one.”
I stall, thinking about her request. Is now the time to tell her? Absolutely fucking not.
I palm the mask and hold it up between us, changing the subject. “Be honest… this for my protection or your aesthetic?”
“Both can be true.” Her mouth tilts. “Also…you’ll scare fewer neighborhood children.”
“Debatable.” I jerk my chin toward the bathroom. “Give me one minute.”
“Take all the time you need,” she sing-songs.
In the bathroom’s cracked mirror, I pull the hood up, settle Ghostface on. The latex smell is new, sharper than Hoover’s old rubber musk. I fit the modulator at the base of my throat, click to a lower register. My reflection is a nightmare; my heartbeat steadies. The mask is a suit of armor and a permission slip. Behind it I’m allowed to be the version of me that doesn’t apologize for taking charge.
When I step out, Juno’s mid-text, thumbs flying, but her head snaps up. Her gaze drags from the mask’s eyes to the curve of the jawline the hood hides.
“Okay,” she breathes, and actually flushes. “So…that’s…sexier than I expected a faceless cryptid to be.”
Heat punches low in my gut. I try for levity. “Don’t kink-shame vigilance.”
She laughs, a little breathless. “If you show up with a plastic knife, I might just lose it.”
I cross the room, stop close enough that she has to tip her face up. The mask’s hollow eyes reflect her own. “Noted.”
Sparks jump the distance like there’s a wire between our ribs. She wets her bottom lip. I shouldn’t. God knows I shouldn’t. But the mask makes me bolder and the clock makes me dumb, and caution takes one quiet step back.
“Juno,” I say, modulator-low, “we’ve got a window to make real progress. I need your head clear.”
“My head’s very clear,” she whispers, and the lie tastes exactly like the truth sounds. Her fingers twitch at her sides. For a breath we hover on the tip of something catastrophic and perfect.
I force air into my lungs and step away. The ache is immediate. “Then let’s work.”
Her exhale shivers, relief tangled with disappointment. “Right. Work.”
I am not the kind of guy who prays to inanimate objects, but I find myself murmuring apologies to the Herbert Hoover mask as I lay it to rest on the filing cabinet. “You did good, old man,” I tell the rubber face. “Time to retire to the Great Depression in the sky.”
Juno touches his face. “I’ll miss him.”
My heart warms at her sentiment. My Juno.
I slide back into the chair at our main station and bring up the HOLO-BURST dossier. “I scraped event calendars this morning. Gracewood Holdings is throwing a private ‘Neon Surge’ launch tonight for HOLO-BURST’s new formula. Every founding member on our board will be there, plus investors, brand managers, and whoever their PR team strong-armed into posting.”