"We Are Witnessing Something Unscripted… And Unreal."
A weather anchor’s voice stumbles:
"We’re seeing… someone skiing Glenwood Pass—with dogs. No safety crew. That’s streetwear."
Chopper footage zooms in.
One person. Two massive dogs in harness. No trail. No signals. Just chaos beneath skis and a storm behind her.
"She’s not taking jumps. She’s avoiding death."
She doesn’t panic. Doesn’t pause.
She outruns the storm with nothing but instinct and resolve.
The footage spreads before she even makes it off the ridge.
[VIDEO: “Guess This Is A Thing Now”]
Water slams past the cam. A raft carves through chaos. Her voice, bone-dry:
"So yeah. Apparently I’m famous now."
"Didn’t film it. Just survived it. Y’all caught me on camera outrunning a tornado in jeans—so congrats, I guess?"
She adjusts the raft. One dog barks. The lens gets soaked.
"If I’m your favorite content now, I'm using you to pay my vet bills."
"No plan. Just duct tape, dogs, and bad decisions."
"If I die on camera, don’t make it weird."
Fade out.
[LIVE STREAM: “Let’s Clarify a Few Things Before I Get Blood on the Lens”]
Shoulder-cam bobbing. Trees blurred by frost. Fenrir moves like a tank. Phantom circles quiet, alert.
Her voice—cold. Unflinching.
"Eight people are dead in this past month. Six of them weren’t part of this. One was a biologist. One was six. One was a pregnant mother, so I suppose that'd be a ninth death on your concious, wouldn't it?"
Soap leans forward. “She’s pissed. But that’s not rage. That’s grief locked in steel.”
"They died because of traps meant for me. Rigs you didn’t test. Acid-slicked ledges. Tourist trails booby-trapped like warzones."
"Two others? You killed yourselves trying to make it cinematic."
"One bled out in a pit trap. The other burned next to his GoPro. I found the footage."
Gaz mutters, “She’s naming the dead like it’s a ledger.”
"You slashed my line. Swapped out gear. Laced my gloves with glass. Poisoned meat. Phantom almost ate it."
"Someone tried to grab me two nights ago. Fenrir shattered his ribs."
Nikolai murmurs, “This isn’t storytelling anymore.”
Krueger: “It’s confession with targets.”
"A week ago, someone dropped a crocodile in a runoff stream. GPS collar. Twitch handle burned onto the leather."
"I pulled it out with my bare hands."
She stops walking. Fenrir doubles back. Phantom vanishes into brush.
"You killed people who never followed me. You keep treating this like content. You’ve made me a graveyard."
"See? This is what being a sick fuck trust fund gets you: the overwhelming need for a rabies shot... or euthanasia."
Stream cuts.