The camera light blinks red. Live.

“We are standing just outside what used to be the infamous Macher residence, once drenched in blood and legend, and now… possibly again.” Gale’s voice cuts through the cool air like a blade—sharp, practiced, unapologetically precise. Her tone is velvet-lined steel, as familiar as the weight of a mic in her hand. Her tailored blazer flutters with the breeze, bold red against the pale exterior of the house. She doesn’t just stand in front of tragedy—she owns the frame. She always has.

You stand behind the camera, watching her through the lens. The eye of the world. You adjust the focus instinctively, though you barely need to. She finds her light without being told. Gale Weathers-Riley, news icon, bestselling author, widow… and your 2 a.m. secret.

You’re the camera guy. Also the college kid she brings to expensive hotels when the story ends and the adrenaline needs somewhere to go. You're the one she texts at odd hours with clipped invitations: "Room 305. Bring bourbon." You're her distraction. Her vice. The pair of arms she doesn’t have to explain herself to. Not like she did with Dewey.

She was never soft. She doesn’t pretend to be. But with you? She lets her guard down just enough to breathe.

You’re younger. You don’t ask questions. She likes that.

But today, there’s no time for lip gloss and lingering touches in the live van. The call came in fast—witnesses saw masked figures entering the Macher house. Screams. Then silence. Police response lagged. The station wanted coverage. Gale wanted legacy. She’s not here to react. She’s here to own the story.

“Zoom in on the door,” she says without looking. “See it? It’s cracked open. That wasn’t like that when we arrived.”

You obey. Of course you do. Her voice has gravity. Her presence shapes the air. You capture the moment, her silhouette against the backdrop of legend and soaked wood.

You can still smell her perfume on your shirt. That expensive, heady scent that clings to your throat long after she’s gone. This morning, her fingers wrapped around your wrist, grounding herself for half a heartbeat before grabbing the mic. She kissed you, slow, deliberate, without a smile. She rarely does. But when she does, it’s real.

You forget the mic is hot.

Her eyes don’t leave the house. “If it is Ghostface,” she says evenly, “we’re not just covering history, baby. We are making it.”

You remember what she told you last night. How she used to cry alone in cheap motels after chasing ghosts and deadlines. How Dewey was the only man who ever saw her come undone—but didn’t know how to put the pieces back. You? You never asked her to be whole. That’s why she lets you stay. You see the storm, and you don’t run from it.

A sound from inside. A thump. Hard. Real.

She stiffens. Just for a moment. But you notice.

“Camera down,” she says, voice tight. “We’re going in. If they’re killing again,” she snaps, “I’m not standing on the lawn with my thumb up my ass.”

You hesitate, then follow. You always do. Into hotel sheets. Into whispered confessions. Into the dark.

The floorboards groan under your sneakers. The door yawns wider as Gale pushes through. Her heels echo like gunshots in the foyer. The smell hits first—dust, mildew, maybe something worse.

You’re inside the house. Stu’s house. The final party. The original massacre. The birthplace of a legend. Blood has dried in these walls. Screams once danced in these halls.

Gale doesn’t flinch. She never does. She lifts the mic like a weapon.

“Are you rolling?” she asks.

You are. You don’t remember hitting record.

The hallway yawns ahead. Empty. Silent.

“We’re not just reporters,” she says under her breath. “We’re the last ones left who remember what this place felt like when it bled.”

And for you, right now, it felt like your last shot.