Dead Views

The rain outside Julian’s high-rise was nothing compared to the toxic static vibrating between them. In the neon glow of the living room, Clara didn't see a lover. She saw the rival content creator who had spent the last six months tanking her view counts, stealing her footage, and mocking her SpookTube channel.

They were both desperate for the ultimate viral clip, which was exactly how they ended up trapped in the Old Factory—the most lethal dive spot on the map.

"Get your camera out of my face, Clara," Julian hissed, his thumb hovering over the power switch of his own video equipment. "You're dragging down my frame rate just breathing near me."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Clara shot back, lifting her heavy filming rig to eye level. "Am I ruining your pristine aesthetic of getting chased by a copper-pipe monster? Because last time I checked, my comments section doesn't think you look good running away in a diving suit."

Julian stepped closer, his jaw tight. The petty bickering was a thin shield for the adrenaline spiking through both of them. They were completely out of oxygen refills, the dive bell was broken, and the automated extraction sub wasn't coming back for another four minutes. Every breath they took inside the factory's rusted control room was borrowed time.

"You think this is a joke?" Julian grabbed the collar of her suit, pulling her forward until the hard plastic of their chest armor collided with a dull thud. "If the Snatcho comes through that door, your little SpookTube followers are going to watch you get deleted in real-time."

"Let them watch," Clara whispered, her breath hitching as his grip tightened. Her eyes dropped to his mouth. The anger between them had turned razor-sharp, shifting into a heavy, suffocating heat that had nothing to do with the lack of oxygen. "At least I’ll go down with higher engagement than you."

Julian let out a low, frustrated growl. He didn't drop his camera, but his free hand moved up to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling roughly in her hair. "You are completely infuriating."

"Then do something about it."

He did. Julian dropped his head and kissed her—hard, angry, and frantic with the shared terror of the dark. Clara met him with the same desperate energy, her hands gripping the straps of his oxygen tank to pull him closer. The metallic taste of the air and the sharp edge of adrenaline made the kiss explosive. It was sloppy, chaotic, and fueled by months of mutual hatred that had secretly turned into obsession.

The camera in Clara's hand clattered against the metal grating of the floor, still recording, capturing the erratic swing of the flashlight beams cutting through the dust.

A heavy, wet thud echoed from the corridor outside, followed by the distinct sound of scraping metal.

They broke apart instantly, chests heaving, their anger instantly refocused on survival. Julian grabbed the dropped camera, shoving it back into Clara’s hands before pulling his own flashlight into position.

"We have to move," Julian muttered, his voice rougher than before, his eyes lingering on her bruised lips for a fraction of a second. "The sub is dropping in thirty seconds. Run, or I'm using your body as a distraction."

"Try it and I'll mute your audio in post-production," Clara snapped, already sprinting toward the extraction point