Chapter 3: The Feed

As soon as I saw them vanish upstairs, I powered up my secret rig—six monitors showing every angle of that room. My heart always thumped a little when I did this, nerves mixing with excitement.

The feed flickered to life. The guy dumped the girl onto the faded comforter, then locked the door behind him, tossing his duffel down. I leaned forward, elbows digging into the chipped laminate desk, pulse quickening. Watching live was always a thrill—every move unfiltered, every whisper caught. No actors, no scripts, just real people doing real things. That’s what made my stuff worth top dollar.

He started undressing her, pale limbs flopping lifelessly. I’ll admit, even after all this time, my breath caught for a second. But something about it felt off. I’d seen plenty of people blackout drunk, but never someone this... inert. She didn’t twitch, didn’t mumble—just lay there, limp as a sandbag. He could’ve been moving a mannequin for all the response she gave.

Even as he stripped her down to her underwear, nothing. No shiver, no flinch. That’s when it hit me—a memory, sharp and unwelcome. I’d gone with my dad to a funeral home as a kid, watched the undertaker dress a body for burial. The same stillness. My hands went numb, a cold sweat breaking out under my shirt. I could almost hear my dad’s voice—“You see something like that, you get the hell out.” I shook my head, trying to laugh it off. "Jesus, get a grip," I muttered, popping the lid off my coffee and taking a bracing gulp.

But then it got weirder. The guy never took off a single piece of his own clothing—not the hat, not the mask, nothing. Just methodical, calm, like he was prepping for something clinical. I’d seen my share of impatient lovers, slow-play guys, and creeps. But this—this was ice-cold. My stomach twisted. I ran a trembling hand through my hair, wishing I had something stiffer than coffee.

The feed showed him pausing, then finally undressing down to his boxers—but still with the mask. Then, from his duffel, he pulled out a clear disposable rain poncho and a cheap plastic shower cap, snapping them on with chilling efficiency. My heart thudded loud enough I was sure he’d hear it through the walls.

Was he really going to do it? I thought of all the true crime podcasts I’d binged on my commute—Dateline, Sword and Scale, you name it. This was the kind of story that ended up on Netflix, with my face blurred out. My cigarette shook so hard I dropped ashes across the desk, but I couldn’t look away.

Next, he set out a hunting knife and a hacksaw on the threadbare carpet. The clink of metal made me flinch. Then he unrolled a big sheet of thick plastic—looked like one of those dollar-store tablecloths—and carried it into the bathroom. The sight made my scalp prickle. I switched cameras, zooming in on the bed.

The girl’s skin was so pale it looked blue, and I could make out a faint line across her throat, barely covered by foundation. My mouth went dry.

Oh God, I thought. I’m in deep shit. I wiped my palms on my jeans, but they just kept sweating. My motel suddenly felt smaller, the walls closing in.