The heartbeat monitor on the corner of the screen was a flat, unmoving line of neon green.
“Check the sensors, Leo,” Hans said, his voice dropping into that low, effortless baritone that had earned him ten million subscribers. He didn't look at the camera. He was too busy staring down at the concrete drop three hundred feet below his dangling sneakers. “I think the equipment is broken again.”
“Equipment’s fine, boss,” Leo’s voice came from behind the lens, sounding shaky. Leo was strapped into a safety harness; Hans was not. “Your heart is just… doing that thing again.”
Hans sighed, a sound of pure, unadulterated boredom. He was sitting on the very edge of an unfinished skyscraper in downtown Chicago. The wind whipped his blonde hair across his eyes, tugging at his jacket, screaming at him to fall. Any normal human being would be experiencing a rush of adrenaline—a primal, screaming ‘shiver’ of survival.
Hans felt nothing.
“Ten years,” Hans addressed the GoPro strapped to his chest. “Ten years of doing this. I’ve jumped out of planes without a primary chute. I’ve spent the night in a coffin with king cobras. I’ve walked through active war zones. And every time, the comments section says the same thing: ‘Hans, how do you do it? Hans, aren’t you scared?’”
He leaned forward, letting his center of gravity tip dangerously over the abyss. Leo gasped, the camera wobbling.
Hans pulled himself back at the last second, his expression as neutral as a stone statue. “The truth is, I’m not brave. I’m just… broken. I’m looking for the shiver. I’m looking for that one thing that makes me feel like I’m actually standing on this earth and not just floating through it. But it’s not here.”
He stood up, walking along the narrow steel beam as if it were a sidewalk in a park. He checked his phone. The livestream chat was moving so fast it was a blur of fire emojis and "HE’S INSANE."
Then, a donation popped up. It wasn't the largest he’d ever received—just $500—but the message was highlighted in a violent, flickering red.
User: TheWhiteBird
"You're looking in the wrong places, Hans. Heights are just physics. Snakes are just biology. If you want to shiver, go to Blackwood Manor. Ask for Maya. She’s been waiting for a student who doesn't know how to learn."
Hans stopped. The wind seemed to die down for a split second.
“Blackwood Manor,” Hans read aloud. He looked at Leo. “Isn't that the place in the suburbs? The one where that teacher went crazy ten years ago?”
“The murder house?” Leo’s voice went up an octave. “No way, Hans. That place is boarded up for a reason. They say the ground there is… soured. Even the police won't go in without a partner.”
Hans felt a tiny, microscopic flicker of interest. It wasn't fear—not yet—but it was curiosity. It had been a long time since a donation felt like a personal invitation.
“Maya,” Hans whispered the name. It sounded soft, like a secret.
He turned back to the camera, a small, hollow smile touching his lips. It was the smile that his fans loved—the one that promised they were about to see something dangerous.
“Alright, TheWhiteBird,” Hans said, reaching out to tap the camera lens. “You win. Pack the gear, Leo. Call Sarah. Tell her to cancel the Tokyo shoot. We’re going to the suburbs. Let’s go see if this Maya girl can do what a three-hundred-foot drop couldn't.”
As Hans walked off the beam and onto the solid roof, he glanced at the monitor one last time.
60 BPM. Steady. Calm. Dead.
He adjusted his collar, unaware of the faint, cold draft that seemed to follow him into the elevator, or the way the lights flickered in a pattern that almost looked like a girl waving goodbye.
41Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJNtk8PA8Sn
41Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡl2fdgSI1ZC
and then Add to home screen.