The forest had been swallowed whole by darkness, stitched together only by the faint shimmer of firelight. The bonfire at the heart of camp crackled and spat sparks into the night, its glow painting fleeting shapes across the faces gathered around it.
Laughter rang out between bursts of chatter, mingling with the scent of caramelized marshmallows—the kind of peace that always comes just before something breaks.
Inside her tent, Aubrey lay half-awake, listening to the voices drifting through the thin fabric. Beside her, Casey scrolled idly through her phone, blue light flickering against her cheek like a cold flame.
"You're still awake?" Aubrey murmured, turning toward her.
"Can't sleep," Casey said without looking up. "Too much sugar. Too much noise."
Outside, students from Professor Thorne's class clustered in uneven circles around the fire. Elijah sat on a weathered log, Chloe perched comfortably on his lap, the two of them whispering as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist. Ling Zhang
roasted marshmallows with his new partner, both laughing softly whenever one tumbled into the flames. The air was thick with comfort—warm, close, familiar.
But not everyone belonged to that calm.
Near the edge of the clearing, where the firelight dimmed and the trees stood like dark sentinels, Lucian sat with Stewart and Paul. Smoke curled lazily from his lips as they huddled around their glowing phones, faces bathed in cold light. Numbers danced across the screens—bets, losses, stolen money—all hidden beneath the sleek interface of a game that was never meant to be fair.
Stewart grinned, stuffing a small foil packet into his pocket. "You know what I love about this place? Everyone's too trusting. You smile, they believe you. Easy cash."
Paul snorted. "You sound like your dad."
Lucian tilted his head, his tone light but edged with something sharper. "My father doesn't waste time on small fish. I just learned from the best."
They laughed, low and satisfied, and for a moment the forest seemed to echo their cruelty.
Stewart leaned closer, voice dropping.
"That girl, Aubrey—she still ignoring you? Thought you'd have her wrapped around your finger by now."
Lucian exhaled smoke through his nose, gaze fixed on the flames. "She's not like the others."
Stewart's grin darkened. "Then make her like the others. One drop in her drink and she'll—"
Lucian's glare cut him off mid-sentence. "No. I said she's different. Don't push it."
The silence that followed was thick and brittle, tension hanging in the air like smoke. Paul chuckled quietly, trying to ease it. "Relax, man. We're just talking."
Lucian said nothing, staring instead at the shifting flames. The game app still glowed on his phone—Prize Stakes. Hundreds of accounts blinked across the screen, each name another desperate soul they'd tricked with false promises of fortune.
He didn't notice the movement at first—the figure walking toward them through the dark.
"Miles?" Stewart laughed as the boy stepped into the firelight. "Didn't expect you out here. Lose another bet?"
Miles stopped a few paces away. His face was pale, his eyes sunken but burning with something raw and dangerous. The laughter around the fire began to fade as more people noticed him standing there, silent and trembling.
When he finally spoke, his voice shook with exhaustion and fury.
"You stole everything."
Stewart rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on, man. You clicked 'agree.' Nobody forced you."
Miles' voice rose, cracking at the edges. "You told me it was safe! You showed me fake results! My mother's sick—she needed that money for surgery!"
A ripple of unease moved through the crowd like a cold wind. Lucian looked up, tension coiling in his chest. Something in Miles' tone—something hollow and final—made the hair on his neck stand on end.
"I found your files," Miles said, lifting his phone with a shaking hand. "Your server logs. Your messages. All of you—Lucian, Stewart, Paul, Ling… and Damien Halvern himself."
He tapped play.
The sound that poured from the speaker wasn't just proof—it was damnation. Voices, laughing. Plans to find "desperate losers" to exploit. Damien's commanding tone cutting through the static. Stewart's cruel snicker. And Lucian's own voice among them, unmistakable and damning.
The crowd's mood snapped like a wire pulled too tight.
"What the hell is this?"
"My cousin played that game—she lost everything!"
"Are you serious? This was a scam?!"
Ling stood abruptly, panic flashing across his face. "It's fake! Someone edited that!"
"Liar!" someone shouted. "We trusted you!"
The shouting spread like wildfire, heat rising with every word hurled into the night. Elijah tried to step between Miles and the trio, hands raised in peace, but the mob was louder now, angrier. Someone shoved Stewart hard. Paul stumbled back, cursing. Lucian's pulse hammered in his ears as he looked into the crowd—faces he knew, twisted now by betrayal and rage.
Miles took one step closer, pulling a small knife from his pocket. The firelight caught the blade, making it gleam like a shard of ice.
"Don't," Lucian said, standing slowly, hands raised. "You don't want to do this."
Miles' voice dropped to a chilling whisper. "You ruined lives for a game. You deserve to bleed for it."
He moved fast—too fast for anyone to stop him. The blade sank into Lucian's chest, shallow at first, then deeper as Miles' trembling hand pushed forward with all the weight of his desperation.
Gasps broke through the night like shattered glass.
Lucian staggered backward, breath catching in his throat. Blood bloomed across his shirt, warm and spreading. Miles' eyes flickered with something strange—a calm settling over him like fog over water.
"This…" he murmured, voice barely audible, "is just the beginning."
And then he crumpled, the knife slipping free as he hit the dirt.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Time seemed to freeze, the fire crackling softly in the stillness.
Then the camp exploded into chaos.
Screams tore through the air. Running feet pounded against earth. Tents collapsed as students scattered into the trees like startled birds. Someone shouted for help; someone else vomited by the fire, doubled over and retching.
Aubrey stood frozen where she was, heart hammering against her ribs. Through the chaos, through the smoke and panic, she saw him—a boy standing motionless near the edge of the clearing, phone still raised, still recording. He wore a black-and-red shirt marked with an eerie spiral and a puppet drawn in twisting, impossible lines. The symbol looked wrong, like it was moving when it shouldn't, shifting at the edges of her vision.
Casey grabbed her arm hard enough to bruise. "Aubrey… that symbol—look at it. It's not just a logo."
The puppet's hollow eyes seemed to stare right through them, deeper than sight, deeper than flesh.
The night that had begun with laughter ended in terror. And in the silence after the screams faded into the trees, Aubrey knew with bone-deep certainty—something much darker had just been set in motion.
Something that had been watching. Waiting.
And now, it had been unleashed.