xamiah

[xamiah]

𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐀 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 𝐎𝐧𝐞 - 𝐔𝐧𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞

𝐋𝐲𝐝𝐢𝐚’𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

‘𝐈 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐝𝐢𝐩 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬. “𝐔𝐧𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞.”’

___

I’m so bored I could claw my own skin off.

There’s only so many times you can pace the same stretch of cabin, wear a path between the bed and the door like some caged animal. Toss that stupid rubber band ball at the wall until the sound drills into your skull. Flip through the same battered pages of a book you’ve already read cover to cover. I’ve counted every crack in the ceiling. Twice. Sorted the pens they gave me into perfect little rows, then knocked them over again just to feel something. Anything. Because if I sit still for too long, I swear - I’ll snap.

Right now, I’m lying flat on the floor, arms sprawled out, cheek pressed to the cool wood. Doing nothing. Thinking about nothing. Just trying to feel something other than this dead weight of time.

I let out a long, low huff and roll onto my side. The floor creaks beneath me. My gaze drifts under the bed and there it is. My backpack. The same one I tried to escape with. It’s shoved all the way to the back, the fabric now catching specks of dust, like it hasn’t been touched since they dragged me in here.

I stare at it for a second. Then push up onto my elbows.

‘Might as well unpack the rest of my clothes’ I think, my mouth twisting into something bitter. Because let’s be honest… I’m not getting out of here anytime soon.

I drag the backpack out. It’s heavier than I remember. I unzip the top, digging down through the crumpled layers of T-shirts and jeans. My fingers brush something hard. Cold.

I freeze.

Then pull it out.

A bottle.

Glass. Clear. Full.

The vodka Jackson gave me that night.

For a second I just stare, too shocked to process. Then this stupid little laugh bubbles up out of me - sharp and breathless, slipping through my lips before I can stop it.

Thank you Jackson.

I glance toward the door, heart ticking faster, like maybe someone saw. But no. No footsteps. No knock. They already checked on me today.

I shove the bottle back into the bag for a second, breathing hard, adrenaline fluttering in my chest. It feels like holding something dangerous. Like power. Like control. My fingers drum against the floor as my mind races.

Should I wait? Savour it? Ration it out like they ration out every scrap of freedom in this place?

Or-

…

The bottle’s half gone now.

I don’t even remember opening it. One second I was staring at it, fingers twitching, heart racing… the next, a burn in my throat, heat blooming in my veins, head floating loose and light.

Now, I’m sprawled on the bed, limbs heavy and boneless, the whole room tilting slow and lazy around me. My cheeks burn. My pulse thrums in my ears. Everything feels distant and sharp all at once - the cheap sheets against my skin, the creak of the old bed frame, the damp chill leaking through the window.

And for the first time in what feels like forever… I don’t care. About the rules. About the check-ins. About Billy. About this whole goddamn camp. Let them drag me back in chains if they want. Right now, none of it matters.

I laugh again, softer this time. A low, warm sound that hums in my chest. Fuck ‘em. Fuck all of ‘em.

The cabin is dark now, save for the faint spill of moonlight seeping through the window. I pull myself upright, dragging my sluggish body toward the sill. I press my chin against my arm and stare out at the trees beyond - a jagged line of shadows against the sky. It’s quiet. Still. The kind of silence that almost feels too big, too hollow to touch. Somewhere in the distance among the trees, an owl calls, one sharp note cutting through the night.

Suddenly, I notice something.

A flicker.

Once. Twice. Then a steady flare of light in the dark.

A cigarette. God how I’d love one right now.

My eyes narrow, drunk and heavy-lidded, but sharp enough to catch the glint of metal in the moonlight - silver. My lighter.

The one he took.

I blink, slow. Disbelief flaring hot in my chest. That’s my fucking lighter. Billy Hargrove, standing out there in the dark, cool as ever - using my lighter. Probably smoking my cigarettes too!

The nerve.

A slow, furious grin curls across my mouth, agape in shock. I shake my head, the motion making the room dip sideways. “Unbelievable.” I mutter.

I watch him for a second longer. He moves closer. Still outside, but near enough now that I know where this is going.

I shove back from the window and fall lazily onto the bed, sprawling against the headboard with an exaggerated eye roll. No point hiding it. No point pretending. I’m drunk, and he’ll see it the second he walks in. Let him. Let him choke on it.

I make a half-hearted attempt to tug a pillow over the bottle - but my coordination’s off. The glass tips, spilling vodka in a slow, shimmering trail down the sheet. “Shit.” I hiss, dragging the pillow awkwardly, trying to blot the spreading wet patch - but the door handle turns.

Too late.

The door swings open-

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝟗𝟐𝟎

___

[xamiah]

𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐀 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 - 𝐋𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐑𝐨𝐭

𝐋𝐲𝐝𝐢𝐚’𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

‘𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜. 𝐊𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐦𝐞 𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐊𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞. 𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬.’

___

It’s been… two weeks? Maybe more. I stopped counting somewhere around day ten, when the sunrises stopped feeling separate from the nights. You’d think with all this time alone I’d be more aware of things - tracking hours, sharpening my mind. But it’s the opposite. Everything blurs. Time folds over itself. Some days I feel like I blink and the sun’s moved. Others, it feels like an entire week has passed before noon.

They gave me books. A couple of old paperbacks, battered at the spines. A stack of worksheets stapled together, the kind they’d hand out in middle school. ‘Mindfulness’. ‘Self-reflection’. ‘Goal setting’. I flipped through them once, tossed them aside. What am I supposed to write? That I want to get the hell out of here? That I’m still angry? That some days I feel like screaming until my voice goes raw?

They gave me all this crap to ‘keep my mind busy’, but the only thing that holds my attention is that binder. His record. I keep it tucked under the mattress, the edges worn from how many times I’ve pulled it out, read it, reread it. Some nights I catch myself tracing the old typewritten lines with my fingertip, like the words might shift, reveal something new. They never do.

California. A step-sister. A father who remarried. That grainy photo of him, sharp-jawed and cold-eyed, staring out of the past like he could punch through the page. Over and over, I read it. And the questions dig deeper every time. What was it like, back there? What happened to him that twisted him up this way? Why move here? Why this camp? Was it choice or punishment?

And if he’s been here, if he’s done all this - why treat me like I’m the one that’s broken?

I try to focus on other things. But it’s useless. Even when I force myself to read something else, my mind drifts back. My eyes scan the words, but behind them it’s always the same loop - Billy, the binder and that last thing he said. ‘If I’d told the truth… they wouldn’t have had you back.’

I haven’t seen him since that day. Not once. Not even passing by outside. Some days I almost wish he would come, if only to break the silence. Other days, the idea of him showing up makes my stomach twist. Because if he does - I won’t know what to do.

I guess you could say I’m in a ‘routine’… If you can call it that. But it’s not real routine. It’s fractured. Jagged. A moving target designed to keep me on edge. They send someone in once… maybe even twice a day - always different, never the same time. A counselor, a nurse, someone with a clipboard and a voice that’s too calm. I don’t know when they’ll come. I don’t know what mood they’ll be in. That’s their tactic. Keep me guessing. Keep me off balance. It works.

I sleep at weird hours. Sometimes the middle of the day, sometimes not at all. I can’t keep my appetite straight. Some mornings I don’t touch the food they leave me. Others, I devour every crumb just for something to do. I don’t bother with half the stuff anymore - hair’s a mess, nails bitten, hands still stiff under the bandages. I wash what I can at the sink in the corner - cold water, harsh soap. No shower, no privacy. I thought about sneaking to the lake once. But the idea of being seen - or worse, drowning alone in the cold - keeps me planted here.

I’m tired. All the time. Bone-tired. The kind of tired that seeps through muscle and mind, until even thinking feels heavy. And beneath it, under all of it, is this low, constant hum of anger. At the camp. At this room. At him.

Because Billy Hargrove, for all his swagger and cold stares, is no better than me. I’ve read the proof. I know the truth of him now. The fights. The drugs. The ‘emotional detachment’. I know he’s done time in this very cabin. Sat in this same chair. Poured that same shitty soap into the sink and scrubbed himself raw. And yet… he walks around out there like he’s different. Like he’s above us.

And I hate him for that.

Because if he’s like me… if he’s one of… why couldn’t he have helped me when it counted?

Why help by giving me those pills… and then disappear?

I don’t know. And it’s driving me insane.

And worst of all, underneath the anger, there’s something colder, sharper.

Because I know this isn’t over.

He will come back.

Eventually.

And when he does, I don’t know if I’ll survive what comes out of me.

Because in here… with nothing else to hold on to… he’s all I think about.

But until then, I’m just… left to rot.

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝟖𝟓𝟎

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 𝐎𝐧𝐞 - 𝐔𝐧𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞

[xamiah]

𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐀 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐍𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 - 𝐑𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬

𝐋𝐲𝐝𝐢𝐚’𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

‘𝐇𝐞’𝐬 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞.’

___

With that, he’s gone. Just like that. No final glance. No smart-ass comment. No explanation for the landmine he just dropped on my chest.

“If I’d told the truth… they wouldn’t have had you back.”

And now he leaves me with that?

Great. Cool. Thanks, Hargrove.

I stare at the door long after the sound of his boots fades. My brain scrambles, chewing on his words like gum that’s lost its flavor. No matter how I twist it, I can’t get the pieces to fit. What the hell is that supposed to mean? He brings me back here, throws me to the wolves, then tosses that line in my face like some noble sacrifice?

What am I even supposed to do with that?

It churns inside me. Angry. Restless. Too big to ignore, too tangled to unpack. I flop backward onto the thin mattress, arms crossed over my face. My skull is still pounding, stomach sour, body heavy in that wrong way that comes after your system’s been tampered with. The ache in my hands throbs in time with my pulse.

And underneath it all: exhaustion. The kind that wins.

And so, I drift away. No dreams. Just darkness. A weightless blur.

When I wake again, the light’s shifted - sharper now, slicing through the window like it owns the room. For the first time since I landed in this place, my head isn’t splitting open.

The painkillers must’ve kicked in while I was out - slow and steady - taking the edge off that grinding, unbearable throb behind my eyes. It’s not gone, but the pressure’s faded. The nausea’s dulled. I can breathe again without feeling like the world’s about to cave in on me.

I push the blanket down and sit up, slower this time, taking stock.

Better. Not good… but better.

Just then, the sound of three sharp knocks cuts through the room, jolting my already-worn nerves.

Another visitor? Seriously? So much for isolation.

I drag myself up, joints stiff, body still half-dead. Each step feels like a marathon. I reach the door and open it slow, wary.

No one.

Just a small metal lunchbox on the step.

How… charming.

I stare down at it. Half expecting it to come with a note: ‘From your favorite captors at Camp Nightwing - enjoy your stay!’

No such luck.

I grab the box, haul it back inside, and drop it onto the desk in the corner. The chair groans as I sink into it, already regretting moving.

I pop the latch. Open it.

A sandwich - white bread, some sad slice of chicken or… turkey? I think there’s some cheese too, if you can call it that. A baggie of carrots. A bruised apple that looks like it’s been in cold storage since 75’. Another bottle of water. Not a single damn thing warm. Not a speck of comfort.

Because god forbid I be allowed a hot meal while they’re busy treating me like a junkie one bad fall away from relapse.

I pick at the sandwich, tear a corner off, chew like cardboard, and give up halfway through. The apple rolls slightly in the box, untouched.

Bored already, I tilt the chair back, balancing on two legs. Rocking. Back and forth. Back and forth. A stupid little rebellion, but right now, it’s all I’ve got.

My gaze drifts over the dull cabin, the bare walls, the corners I’ve already memorized out of sheer boredom. Then back to the desk… to a drawer I somehow hadn’t noticed before. My brows pull together, curiosity flickering. ‘Huh. How had I missed that earlier?’

Curious now - because why the hell not - I lean forward and tug it open.

It sticks, then slides free with a groan, dust puffing up faintly.

Inside, it’s mostly empty. Some old pen caps. A broken pencil. And a rubber band ball. Small, tight, someone’s pet project from long nights of isolation. I pick it up, roll it in my palm.

Bounce. Catch.

Bounce. Catch.

Thunk. Thunk.

Oddly satisfying.

I toss it again, eyes catching on the very back of the drawer. Something thicker buried beneath a stray folder.

I reach in, fingers brushing something solid - heavy.

I pull it out.

A binder. Thick. Worn. No label. Water-warped edges. It smells faintly of mildew and paper left too long in damp places.

I flip it open without really thinking, the weight of the pages pulling at my fingers. The binder creaks, the metal rings groaning.

Inside, pages and pages of old camp records. Files. Names. Faces. Each one pressed flat between thin, brittle sheets. Kids like me - kids who’d been here before, who’d sat in these same chairs, stared at these same peeling walls. And now their lives are reduced to single-page write-ups and cold labels stamped across the margins. Photos stare back at me from crooked glue or yellowed tape, black-and-white portraits of kids who look half-feral, dazed, or angry… and even sometimes nothing at all. The captions below each picture cut sharper than the photos themselves. Delinquent. Violent. Addict. Liar. Risk.

I start turning the pages - at first slow, then a little faster. I skim through, half out of boredom, half out of disgust. The deeper I go, the worse it gets. This place doesn’t change. Not really. They just sort you into neat little boxes and pretend they’ve solved you. Pretend they know your story because someone in a clipboard wrote a few pretty words beside your name. It’s the same shit they’ve been pulling for decades.

Then, something catches my eye as it hangs out, a chart, hanging by a single staple in the middle of the binder. Bold block letters stamped across the top: ‘Boys - 1985 Intake.’

A list. Names. File numbers. Page references. I run my gaze lazily down the columns, fingers idly tracing the edge of the paper, until suddenly - my hand stops. My breath stutters, my eyes lock on one line that leaps off the page before I can make sense of it.

'Hargrove, William - Page 43'.

My heart stumbles in my chest. A weird little jolt, sharp and fast. Hargrove. My brain short-circuits for a second. I frown, biting the inside of my cheek. It can’t be him. Surely not. It’s probably another Hargrove… right?

Curiosity kicks in, sharp now, buzzing beneath my skin. My fingers start flipping through the pages faster than I mean to - too fast - the corners of the pages whispering past my thumb as the numbers blur upward. My pulse hammers in my ears, heavy and loud. 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 44 wait - shit.

I flick back, breath caught in my throat.

Page 43.

I stop. My whole body goes still, breath caught mid-inhale.

There he is.

Billy.

I blink. And then again. Like if I just stare long enough, it’ll change. Morph into someone else - some other Hargrove. But no. It’s him. Clear as day. Black and white. A little grainy, the photo off-center, the corners of the glue curling with age. But still unmistakable. That sharp jaw. Those eyes - cold, cutting. That same ‘fuck you’ stare that looks like it could burn a hole straight through the camera. His hair’s the same too - mullet and all - though a little less tamed.

And the fight - that’s still there too. The armor. It’s built into him. You can see it, even frozen in a photograph. In the way he holds his shoulders, like he’s daring someone to try and knock him down.

He’s younger here, though only by a little, maybe the same age as me. He looks like a kid who’s barely grown into himself.

The caption beneath the photo catches my eye.

___

Name: William (Billy), Hargrove.

Born: March 29, 1967.

Birthplace: California.

___

A breath slips out of me - half a laugh, half disbelief. It stutters off my tongue before I can catch it. Of course. Of course he’s been here. Billy Hargrove. Camp leader. Rule-maker. Enforcer. The guy who stalks around this place like he owns it, like the rest of us are beneath him. He’s one of us. He sat in this same chair. Ate the same shit food. Slept in this same cabin. Did time in isolation.

I glance back at the file and begin to read.

___

• Multiple physical altercations.

• Aggression toward peers and staff.

• Substance misuse: alcohol, stimulants, marijuana.

• Emotional detachment.

• Disciplinary isolation - record of repeated placements.

• Mother estranged. Father remarried.

(Subject unwilling to engage regarding family. Displays heightened volatility when questioned.)

Conclusion:

“Behavioral instability likely rooted in maternal abandonment. Lack of secure attachments may contribute to violent outbursts and resistance to authority.”

___

I stare at the words.

At the cold, clinical language they used to dissect him.

To pin him down like a bug on display.

Mother gone. Father moved on. Billy left behind to rot.

And now here he is, acting like he’s somehow better. Like he’s standing on some moral high ground above the rest of us when he’s been through the same hell.

I shake my head, throat tight.

At first, the anger rises. Bitter and sharp.

How dare he? How dare he sit behind that mask, barking orders and handing out punishments like he’s never set foot in these same chains?

But then-

Underneath the fury… something softer tugs.

Because I know that story.

That hollow ache.

That skin you build so no one sees what’s cracked underneath.

He’s just like me.

And somehow, that pisses me off more than anything.

Because if he’s like me - if he knows - then he should understand. He should’ve let me go.

I slam the binder shut, heart pounding.

My hands are trembling.

Not just from anger now.

From something colder.

From the sinking, ugly knowledge that maybe - just maybe - there’s more to Billy Hargrove than I’ve been willing to admit.

And I don’t know what the hell to do with that.

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝟏,𝟕𝟎𝟓

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 - 𝐋𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐑𝐨𝐭

___

𝐀/𝐍: 𝐓𝐲𝐬𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨’𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐫! 𝐈’𝐦 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭�� 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞, 𝐬𝐨 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭 (𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦) 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐬 𝐦𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞! 𝐀𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬, 𝐦𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧! - 𝐗𝐚𝐦𝐢 <𝟑

[xamiah]

𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐀 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐄𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 - 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫

𝐋𝐲𝐝𝐢𝐚’𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

‘ “𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐧 𝐈𝐛𝐮𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐧?” ’

___

Billy.

The light from outside silhouettes him for a second, carving out the harsh line of his jaw, the cut of his shoulders, the way his frame fills the doorway like a threat that hasn’t made up its mind. His eyes find mine almost instantly, like he’s been looking since the second he walked in.

We lock eyes.

And for a breath, everything goes still.

The headache dulls, the nausea steadies, the spinning slows… and all that’s left is that look. Heavy and unreadable. His face is carved in stone, no expression to cling to, no emotion to name, but his gaze latches onto me like he’s bracing for impact.

Like he’s not sure what I’ll do.

Like maybe he’s afraid of it.

My heart kicks up confused, angry and loud.

But before anything can be said - she walks in behind him.

“Hi, Lydia,” says a voice that doesn’t match the dread in my chest. A woman steps forward, crisp white coat, hair in a perfect twist, a black bag hugged to her chest like a shield. “I’m Nurse Campbell. I understand you’ve had quite a nasty fall.”

A fall?

The word bounces around my skull and knocks something loose.

And just like that, it floods back - jagged and fragmented. The fall. The hard ground. My knees giving out. My palms catching pavement. That helpless tilt of the world as it slipped out from under me.

I glance down at my hands, as if seeing them for the first time. They’re a mess - red, raw, threaded with dirt and blood. They look like they’ve been dragged through gravel, picking up tiny bits and embedding them into the wound. I hadn’t even realised how bad they were. The nausea had stolen center stage. But now, in the light, with both of them watching me, the pain returns with a vengeance.

The Nurse moves closer, crouching beside the bed, her bag already open, gloved hands moving with cold efficiency. “Let’s have a look, shall we?”

She takes one of my hands gently, turning it over in hers like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to solve. The skin is cracked in places, scabbed in others, blood dried in thin patches along my lifeline. She doesn’t sympathise. Just reaches into her kit, pulls out a bottle of clear liquid and cotton pads, and says the words like they’re routine:

“This is going to sting.”

Sting is the understatement of the year.

The second the rubbing alcohol hits the wound, my whole arm jerks. It’s like my skin is boiling off. A hiss slips through my teeth, but I don’t cry out. I grit down hard, jaw clenched, tears springing unbidden to my eyes.

Billy stays silent, unmoving. He leans against the doorframe like he’s trying to disappear into it.

And I hate that I notice him. Hate how aware I am of his silence, his presence. Every second he stands there without speaking feels like a question I’m not allowed to ask.

She moves on to the other hand, more of the same. The pain is sharper now, clearer. After, she applies two huge plasters - too big, like something you’d give a child for show - and then stands back, satisfied.

“All done!” she says brightly, as if that means anything.

Her gloves snap off with a clean, efficient pop like she’s proud of herself. Like patching up my shredded hands somehow solves all the deeper, uglier damage. I sit there, pulse hammering behind my eyes, the plasters already warm and slick against my skin, a reminder of every second I wasn’t in control.

She doesn’t ask how I feel, just,

“Any other symptoms?”

I swallow, then force the words out. “My head is killing me,” I mutter. “And I still feel sick. Do you have anything? Aspirin? Paracetamol?”

She hesitates.

And that pause… that tiny, flickering pause, tells me everything.

Her smile falters. Her eyes flick to Billy. Like she’s weighing the risk of what she’s about to say, as though I’m a live wire and she’s got wet hands.

“I’m afraid… not,” she says eventually. Soft, careful. The kind of tone people use with wild animals. “Given your history, Lydia, and your circumstances here, we’re not permitted to administer any pain relief.”

I blink.

I’m not sure I heard her right. Or maybe I’m just hoping I didn’t.

“You’re joking.” I say flatly. But my heart’s already racing. My shoulders tense.

She offers me a smile so sweet it curdles. “Those are the rules.”

I stare at her.

Then I laugh.

It’s not a real laugh. It’s dry, humorless and shredded at the edges. My throat burns from it. My vision blurs again - not from the nausea, not from the headache, but from the humiliation clawing its way up the back of my throat. They’re treating me like some junkie addict… taking me to a place I’d sworn to never look back on.

“I’ve been clean,” I say, knowing there’s no point wasting my breath before I’ve even begun. “For nearly a year now.”

“I’m aware Lydia but-”

“You think I’m gonna what - take a Tylenol and suddenly go off the rails?” I interrupt the calm, robotic speech that she’s memorized since day one.

“Protocol is in place to keep everyone safe,” she says, as if that explains anything. As if that makes this okay.

“My head is splitting open,” I snap, louder than I mean to, louder than I can handle. The sound ricochets through my skull like shrapnel, and I wince as the pain doubles down, thick and searing behind my eyes. I breathe through it… just barely… swallowing a wave of nausea so strong it burns. “I can’t see straight, I can’t fucking think, and you’re seriously telling me I don’t even qualify for a goddamn Ibuprofen?”

For a heartbeat, I hope she might flinch. That maybe she’ll see me - not the file, not the label, me. A girl shaking in a bed she didn’t choose, wrapped in pain she didn’t earn, asking for the bare. Fucking. Minimum.

But she doesn’t.

She doesn’t even blink.

She smooths her coat sleeve like I’ve inconvenienced her. Like I’m background noise in her neatly scheduled day. Just another name on her long list.

“You’re being erratic now,” she says, crisp and clinical. Her tone sharpens like she’s warning a dog not to bark. “And honestly, I don’t see how a little fall and a few scrapes could be causing this much fuss.”

Her words hit harder than the concrete did last night.

My heart drops. I actually feel it - this sick, cold weight sinking into my stomach like an anchor. Something deflates inside me. Something that was fragile to begin with.

How could she?

Does she really think this is about some scraped-up hands? That I’m just throwing a tantrum because I want a kick? Is she serious? Off of 2 Painkillers?

She looks at me like that’s all I’ve ever been.

A problem. A burden. A girl too loud, too much, too broken to treat like a person.

And I hate how familiar that look is.

“I didn’t ask for narcotics,” I snap, my voice raw now - less anger (though it’s still there) more desperation - bleeding out with every word. “I asked for a pill I could walk into a grocery store and buy for three bucks.”

Three fucking bucks.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. Doesn’t even breathe differently.

That silence is worse than shouting.

Because it means she’s already written me off.

Because it means I’m still just the girl from the file - the addict, the risk, the liability.

Because it means she came in here never planning to help.

And I feel it. In my throat. In my ribs. That old ache. That hollow ache.

The ache of knowing that no matter how hard I fight to get better, to be seen, to be more than what they’ve stamped across my name, they will always see me as less.

Less worthy. Less honest. Less human.

And suddenly, I’m not angry anymore.

I’m something colder.

Something quieter.

I stare down at my newly bandaged hands and realise that I’m gripping my fists together so tightly my knuckles have gone white and fresh blood has already started appearing through the gauze. My whole body’s shaking. With pain. With rage. With the ache of being dismissed one too many times by people who swore they were here to help.

And Billy still - still - doesn’t say a word.

He doesn’t move.

He just watches. From the edge of the room. Silent. Undefinable.

He should say something. He saw me last night - he knows how bad it was. How far gone I was. But no. Not a word. Just silence and self-preservation. He’s protecting himself, not me. Typical. God, so typical. I don’t even know why I expected anything else. No one’s ever stepped up for me. Not when it mattered. Not once. Why would he be any different?

Nurse Campbell, like she’s bestowing some kind of divine gift, reaches into her bag again.

I wait, desperately hoping she’s changed her mind. Hoping she’ll show some kind of humanity. That she’ll offer anything remotely helpful.

But no.

What she pulls out is orange plastic.

A barf bucket.

She sets it down beside the bed like it’s a goddamn trophy.

“Use this if you feel unwell,” she says. “If you require a follow-up appointment, you can request one with the staff.”

That’s it. No further help. No second glance. Just another ticked box.

And with that, She leaves.

The door shuts behind her with a dull click, and it’s like the air in the cabin changes shape.

Leaving him.

Just Billy.

The silence swells. Not quiet - loud. Too loud. A kind of silence that hums in your ears and presses into your lungs. It fills the room like smoke, thick and waiting, curling around every sharp edge of what hasn’t been said.

He doesn’t move.

Just stands there with his arms crossed over his chest. I see the faintest twitch in his jaw. A tiny shift, almost nothing, but it tells me everything. He’s not calm. He’s holding something back. And whatever it is, it’s costing him.

If I had the strength, I’d scream at him. I’d throw the orange bucket across the room, crack it against the wall just to watch him react. I’d ask him who the hell he thinks he is, acting like he’s here to help, after throwing me back into the one place I’m trying to get away from.

But I don’t.

I don’t have the strength.

And worse - I don’t understand why he’s still here.

When he finally moves my heart skips a beat, a scary, unusual, feeling I’m not used to having around him. He approaches Quietly. No words, no warning.

Just a hand sliding into his jacket pocket.

And when he pulls it free, I blink - because there, in his palm, is a small white bottle. Familiar. Unmistakable.

Painkillers.

The kind I’d practically begged for. The kind they refused me. The kind that would get anyone else written up without a second thought.

He unscrews the cap slowly. The sound of the seal breaking feels too loud in the quiet.

He pours two into his hand.

Still, he doesn’t speak. He just steps forward - closer than I expected, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin.

He reaches for me, careful and precise. Takes my wrist - not roughly, not firmly, but gently. Like I might pull away. Like he’s not sure I’ll even let him touch me.

And then he opens his palm.

The pills fall into mine with the softest sound, barely a whisper against my skin. But it’s not the pills I feel.

It’s him.

His fingers brush mine - barely- but it’s enough. Enough to freeze the air. Enough to send a spark racing down my arm like a jolt of static. It’s over in a blink. A ghost of a touch. But I feel it long after he’s pulled back.

He offers the water next. An unopened bottle of spring. I take it without meeting his gaze. Unscrew the cap with trembling fingers and down both pills in one go. My throat’s dry, but they go down easy.

I don’t thank him.

He doesn’t expect it.

He just watches steady, unreadable, like he’s making sure I don’t spit them out the second he turns around. I don’t. I cap the bottle and set it down on the bed beside me.

And still, he doesn’t speak.

But something in me shifts.

Not because the pain is fading - it isn’t - but because for the first time since I woke up in this room, someone did something human. Someone gave a shit. Just a little. Just enough.

And it’s him.

Why?

Why him?

Why, after dragging me back, after saying nothing while they tossed me in isolation like a feral dog - why is he the one offering help now?

I want to ask.

I want to throw it in his face.

But the words get stuck somewhere behind my ribs, trapped between anger and confusion and something I don’t want to name.

He turns to leave.

That’s when it hits me in the chest, sharp and breathless. Like missing a step on a staircase.

And before I can stop myself, the words tumble out:

“Why did you lie?”

My voice is rough. My first words to him today.

He stops.

Just… stops.

Not a flinch. Not a breath. Not a single twitch of muscle. Still as stone. Like he’s been waiting for that question. Like he knew it would come.

The seconds stretch. Thick and heavy.

I don’t let it go.

“About what happened.”

I clarify. Impatient, sharp, aimed.

He doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t look at me.

But something changes in his posture. His shoulders drop. Just a fraction. Like the tension’s pulled loose for the first time in hours. Or days. Or ever.

For a terrifying second, I think he won’t answer.

And then… he does.

He tilts his head, just slightly, enough for me to catch the edge of his profile through the loose strands of hair that fall across his face.

“Because if I’d told the truth…”

The words are quiet, but they carry weight—low and flat, like he’s forcing them past something stuck in his throat. The kind of truth that doesn’t come easy. The kind that hurts on its way out.

He pauses.

Not the kind of pause that fills silence—it’s the kind that creates it. The kind that lets the air grow dense, heavy with everything he’s not saying. His shoulders rise like he might keep it in after all, then fall again, slow and uneven.

Then he exhales.

A rough, tired sound, not loud, but sharp enough to catch in my chest.

“…they wouldn’t have had you back.”

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝟐,𝟓𝟒𝟏

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐍𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 - 𝐑𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬

[xamiah]

𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐀 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 – 𝐀 𝐍𝐞𝐰 𝐂𝐚𝐠𝐞

𝐋𝐲𝐝𝐢𝐚’𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

‘𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐨𝐦. 𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐚 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐚𝐠𝐞. 𝐀 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬.’

___

Pain comes first.

A slow, cruel kind of pain. Like someone drove a railroad spike behind my eyes and is tapping it deeper with every breath I take. Each throb is blunt and deliberate, echoing through the hollow cavern of my skull. My mouth is dry, lips sandpapered, tongue thick and dead. My stomach coils like a fist, roiling with something foul, something that doesn’t belong.

The air tastes wrong. Not like alcohol or cigarette smoke or the musty blankets from my usual bunk. This is sterile. Clean linen, fresh wood, cold wind.

This isn’t my cabin.

I open my eyes - barely. Just enough to squint through the blur, the haze clinging like gauze to everything. I sit up too fast and regret it instantly. The world tips. My vision doubles. Nausea punches up from my gut, sharp and immediate, like it’s clawing to escape. I slap a hand over my mouth and breathe through my nose, counting backward in a silent scream.

Ten. Nine. Eight.

The ceiling spins like a slow carousel. My bones feel waterlogged. Sweat beads at the base of my neck. My skin crawls. I’m in the wrong body - too slow, too hot, too wrong.

Where the hell am I?

The room is brighter than it should be, and too put-together. Not the usual rundown box they keep us in. The walls are painted a pale neutral, the bed is actually made, and a desk sits empty in the corner. There’s a single window, no curtain, just glass cracked open an inch to let in the sound of wind through trees and distant water lapping the shore.

It’s peaceful.

It’s terrifying.

And I don’t remember how I got here.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps jolts me from my thoughts.

The door swings open with authority, no knock, no warning, like they already own me. Three figures file in, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. I recognize two immediately.

Dr Leslie, the counselor with a sunny voice and ponytail that tight it could snap. And Clipboard Guy a member of camp staff with a name I’ve never cared to learn - though I’ve seen him around. Always carries a clipboard like it’s glued to his hand.

The third one’s new. Older. Stern. A tall man with gray at his temples, pressed slacks, and a face carved from granite. I clock him instantly. This guy has spent his whole life giving orders and expecting obedience.

He looks at me like I’ve already failed him.

“Good morning, Lydia,” Clipboard Guy starts, voice smooth like this is some kind of pleasant meeting. “We wanted to check in before your day begins.”

I squint at them through the pounding ache in my head. I grab a pillow, using it to cover myself up like a shield. “Where am I?” My voice croaks out, shredded and raw.

The older man steps forward. “You’re in an isolation cabin now.”

The word lands like a hammer to the gut.

Isolation.

He keeps going, like it’s nothing. “You’ll stay here until further notice. Until we decide you’re ready to rejoin the rest of the group.”

I blink hard. The room swims. The nausea creeps higher in my throat. I swallow it, but it won’t stay down.

The word echoes, bouncing around the inside of my skull louder than anything else. This isn’t freedom. It’s a prettier cage. A private prison wrapped in clean sheets and painted walls. And all I can do is sit there and absorb the blow like it’s not shattering me from the inside out.

“I don’t…” My voice cracks. I clear my throat. “Why?”

Dr Leslie tries the gentle approach. “We know about the incident, Lydia. About you leaving camp property.”

“Escaping,” Granite Man corrects her, without so much as glancing her way. “You were seen. And brought back.”

My brows knit as I fumble for an excuse. “That’s a lie i didn’t-”

“Mr Hargrove saw you,” Clipboard Guy interrupts. “Out in town. He brought you back. Said he found you wandering the street.”

I freeze.

Wait - what?

Billy… said that?

Flashes come back in sick little bursts: the bar, the noise, a man coming way too close for comfort. Billy was there… he saved me from that creep.

He’s… protecting me?

And I should feel grateful, but all I feel is shame, boiling in my gut, rising to my throat like poison.

I say nothing.

I can’t say anything. If I speak, I unravel. If I say it aloud, it becomes real.

So I nod. Like a good little liar.

Granite Man studies me. “You’ll get meals, water and assignments. Any laundry will be collected on Fridays. Stay in the cabin unless told otherwise. This is not a punishment. It’s a chance for reflection.”

I nearly laugh.

‘Not a punishment’.

Sure.

They file out as easily as they came in. The door shuts behind them with a heavy, final click.

And then it’s just me.

Me and the silence.

Me and the nausea.

I sit there for maybe a minute. Maybe ten. The room sways. My heartbeat is too loud. My fingers tremble as I peel off my hoodie and let it fall onto the floor like it betrayed me. Underneath, I’m still wearing last night’s clothes. Wrinkled. Dirty. Foreign.

The sickness builds and builds until I can’t hold it anymore.

I stumble toward the tiny attached bathroom, hit the cold tile on my knees, and throw up until my ribs ache. Until my eyes water. Until I’m empty in every way a person can be.

When it’s done, I collapse sideways on the floor, cheek pressed to the a sink, which is the only thing I have to clean myself up. It’s freezing, and I let it seep into my skin. Let it remind me that I’m still here. That this is real.

Eventually I drag myself back to the bed. I don’t change clothes. I don’t move. I lie there, staring at the ceiling, letting the nausea fade to a dull threat and the headache settle behind my eyes like a storm cloud refusing to break.

And then memory creeps in.

That moment. That single, stupid moment.

I kissed him.

I kissed Billy Hargrove. My Camp Leader Billy Hargrove!

And worse… he kissed me back.

My throat closes. I press the heel of my hand against my eyes, trying to erase it, but it’s carved into me. His mouth. The heat. The hesitation. The pull. God, what was I thinking? I wasn’t. That’s the truth. I wasn’t thinking because I wasn’t me. Because something happened in that bar, something I couldn’t stop. Someone tampered with me. Spiked me!

It’s the only explanation. Because I would never kiss -

The cabin door swings open.

Him.

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝟏,𝟏𝟔𝟏

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐄𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 - 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫

[xamiah]

𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐀 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐢𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 – 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬

𝐋𝐲𝐝𝐢𝐚’𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

‘𝐁𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝, 𝐢𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭.’

___

The kiss is over before it even begins.

One second, I’m leaning forward - drawn to him not by lust but something softer. Something blurry and unspoken. A yearning that feels like a dream I had once but can’t quite remember. His mouth is right there, parted just slightly, waiting. And without even thinking, I move in like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

But then-

Reality slams into us like cold water. And he pushes me back.

He doesn’t shove me, not really. Just a sudden, instinctive push, too hard, too fast, causing me to stumble back. My shoes catch on uneven pavement. Gravity yanks at me like a punishment, and I fall… hard.

Palms scrape asphalt attempting to soften the impact. I slam ass first scraping against solid concrete. There’s a harsh sound of stray stones being kicked up, but the pain doesn’t feel real. I hear it more than I feel it. Like the impact happened to someone else.

The world tilts. Spins. The streetlights above smear into dizzy halos of gold, like the stars have fallen out of orbit. My stomach flips. Not a small flutter, but a slow, sick churn that rolls through my entire body like oil. I close my eyes, and everything disappears in a dark wave - thick and suffocating.

I’m not just drunk. I know that now.

This is definitely different.

My thoughts don’t line up. My muscles don’t respond. I feel unstitched. My body sliding one way, my mind another. Words drift through my head like torn paper in the wind. Nothing stays. Nothing lands.

I can’t remember how I got here. I can’t remember how many drinks I’ve had… or who handed me the last one… or why my legs feel like water.

My fingers shake against the concrete. I press my palms down, feeling a strangely wet sensation followed by a slight buzzing pain. My weak attempt to push myself up fails.

Somewhere above me, a voice cuts through the static.

“Lydia…”

I hear it like it’s underwater. Far away. Slurred.

Then again. Louder. Sharper. Closer.

“Lydia.”

I lift my head a little. The effort is monstrous. Like all the bones in my neck had turned to jello. I try to speak, but my mouth is dry, my tongue numb. I can’t form words that make sense, only breathy scraps.

And then he’s there.

Billy.

He towers above me like a statue lit from below - half in shadow, half gold from the nearest streetlamp. His face is tight. Haunted. There’s something in his eyes that makes me flinch - not anger, but something quieter. Something worse. Fear.

Not fear for himself.

Fear for me.

He kneels slowly, boots scraping softly as he crouches in front of me. His hands are suddenly on my face, rough and calloused, but warm. Anchoring. Thumbs brushing under my eyes where tears haven’t even started. Not yet. His breath is thick with whiskey, but his eyes, bloodshot and glassy, are locked on mine with a kind of desperation I don’t recognize. Or maybe I’m too far gone to trust what I see.

“Stay with me,” he says, voice hoarse. Like it’s scraping its way up his throat. Raw with panic. “Right Lydia? Stay with me yeah?.”

I want to answer. I do. But I can’t make my mouth obey. The words sit behind my teeth like stones. All I manage is a whisper: “I’m fine.”

It’s a lie. We both know it. My voice doesn’t sound like mine. It’s frayed. Small. Distant.

His jaw tightens, and his hands move again - one behind my back, the other under my knees. And then I’m weightless. Floating. He lifts me like I’m nothing, like I don’t weigh a thing. And maybe right now I don’t. Maybe I’m not really here.

My head drops against his chest. I can feel his heart pounding. Fast. Wild. Too loud. Like he’s as shaken as I am and trying to pretend he’s not.

“I’m taking you back,” he mutters. Like it’s final.

Back.

The word punches through the fog in my brain and echoes. Back to that place. That place I left behind. That place I swore I’d never go again.

Camp.

No. No. No. No. No. Not there!

My chest twists, lungs refusing to expand. I want to fight, to scream, but I can’t lift my arms. My body won’t listen. I’m a passenger in someone else’s skin.

He carries me to a car and opens the door with one hand. Eases me inside with the other like I’m porcelain. My legs are folded in carefully. Door shut. Locked.

The world dims around the edges.

The engine growls. The car hums beneath me. We start moving.

The motion is nauseating. The lights outside smear like brushstrokes. I press my forehead against the window, and the chill bites me back into myself. It helps, but only a little. Enough to remind me that he’s next to me. That he hasn’t said a word since we left.

The silence between us is sharp. Shimmering with tension. I can feel it pressing into the air like static before lightning.

I don’t know what he’s thinking. I don’t even know what I’m thinking. Everything’s too tangled. I’m floating somewhere between guilt, want, shame and confusion.

My thoughts are a broken carousel. I’m not okay. Not because I’m drunk. Not even because I kissed him.

Because for a second, it felt right. And that’s the worst part.

God, I’m so stupid. So pathetically stupid.

My fingers twitch on my lap. I can’t stop moving - picking at the hem of my jeans, dragging my nails down my arms like I can scratch the night off me. I want to crawl out of my own skin. I want to go back in time. I want to forget everything.

But then I do it.

I touch my bottom lip.

Just lightly. Absentmindedly. Like if I press hard enough, maybe the memory will imprint. Maybe I can make sense of it. His lips. The way he did kiss me back, even if just for a second. Even if he regrets it now… I know I do… I think.

I don’t realize I’m still touching my mouth until I glance sideways - and see him watching.

His hands grip the wheel tighter. His jaw pulses. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look away. Just keeps driving like the car is the only thing tethering him to reality.

And still, I sit there. Slouched. Silent. Spiraling.

A passenger in every sense of the word.

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝟏,𝟒𝟖𝟑

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 – 𝐀 𝐍𝐞𝐰 𝐂𝐚𝐠𝐞

[xamiah]

𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐀 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 - 𝐋𝐲𝐝𝐢𝐚

𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲’𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

‘𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐟𝐚𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐮𝐧? 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞? 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐈 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐠𝐧𝐢𝐳𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫?’

___

The guy finally backs off, muttering something under his breath, nursing his ego like it’s a wound he’s pretending doesn’t exist. I watch him go, but barely. He’s already fading - white noise in the back of my mind. My focus is pinned to something else.

Her.

She hasn’t moved much. Still draped over the bar like she’s trying to melt into it, elbows braced against stained wood, shoulders curled inward like she’s trying to make herself smaller… or maybe like she’s holding herself up with the last of her strength. Her hair falls in soft, messy waves that curtain most of her face, but even from where I’m standing, I can feel it. That pull. Like gravity got tired of playing by the rules and decided to fuck with me instead.

There’s something raw about her posture. Intentional, but not performative. Her hoodie’s slipping from one shoulder, exposing pale skin and a thin strap that rides her collarbone. One side of her hips tilts toward me, the denim stretched tight in a way that makes it impossible not to notice. The way she’s angled - like she doesn’t care if the whole goddamn bar sees her like this - hits something low and hot in me, and I hate that I feel it.

I should look away. Hell, I do - for maybe half a second. But then I look back. Because of course I do. Because I’m an idiot. Because I’ve had too much to drink and not enough sleep and way too many nights trying to forget faces that won’t let me.

She shifts again, the kind of movement that isn’t even for anyone - just a balance adjustment - but it drags her jeans tighter across her hips, and now I’m the one staring like some sweaty-fisted creep. Like some bar-floor predator who thinks buying her a drink entitles him to the shape of her spine. Jesus. Get a fucking grip, Billy.

I didn’t step in for this.

She’s just a girl. A hot one, sure. Bent over like a fucking fantasy. But I didn’t scare that asshole off to get my shot at her. I did it because he was being a dick. Because I’ve seen enough girls cornered by drunk pricks to know the look in their eyes when it’s about to go sideways. That’s it. That’s all.

So why the hell am I still standing here?

Maybe it’s the liquor buzzing through my veins. Or the way she doesn’t look scared, even though she probably should. There’s something about the way she holds herself - tight, contained, like a clenched fist. Like she’s seen worse and dared it to swing harder. Girls like her don’t end up in places like this unless they’ve burned through their better options. That’s a truth I know too well. Still - there’s no fragility in her. Just friction. Like she was built to spark.

And maybe I just needed to look at something that wasn’t rusted cabins, or angsty teens, or the same staff rotation with the same exhausted stories. It’s Friday night. My first one off in weeks. I clocked out, left the camp in the dust, swore I’d drink until the static in my head gave up.

I drank. And drank again.

And now I’m here, staring at a girl who looks like she crawled right off of a playboy magazine and landed at the bar to dare the world to notice her. I don’t even know what I’m thinking when I start walking toward her.

My steps are slow, deliberate. Almost like I’m trying not to startle a spooked animal or stumble over my own feet in my drunken state.

She stirs her drink just slightly. Fingers twirling a straw. Head tilting, just enough to let me know she knows I’m there. And then-

“Thank you,” she says, voice low and warm and strangely intimate.

I pause. Frown. Something tugging at the edge of recognition - but I can’t place it.

“You okay?” I ask, careful.

“Yeah,” she says. “Just a little shaken up, but I’ll be fine.”

And then she laughs. Light, almost playful. “I honestly don’t know how I can repay you.”

I hesitate, then try to shift the mood. “If I give you my number… maybe you could repay me with a drink sometime?”

Lame. Way too lame. I laugh under my breath to cover it, but she does too. Her lips part. That sound again - realer this time.

Her lips curve, slow, and she laughs again this time, something almost real. Her hair shifts as she lifts her head.

And then-

My whole world tilts.

Her eyes meet mine.

Wide. Unbelieving. Glassy and drunk, but clear enough for the recognition to slam into both of us.

No. Fucking. Way.

My stomach drops.

“Lydia!?”

Her name flies out of me, shocked and sharp.

She stares, wide-eyed, like she was looking into the face of a ghost.

“Fuck,” she breathes, voice cracking under the weight of it.

Her face - drunk, flushed, stunned - doesn’t lie. It’s her. It’s her.

Every inch of me goes cold.

All that heat, that haze in my head, the fantasy I was spinning in the background like an idiot - it collapses. Gone.

My jaw tightens.

What the hell is she doing here!?

How far did she run? How long has she been gone? And how the fuck did I not recognize her?

I can’t process any of it. All I know is she’s here, drunk, in some shitty bar halfway across town, surrounded by men who would’ve torn her apart if I hadn’t stepped in.

My voice turns to ice.

“Hey, Rico,” I shout over to the bartender, eyes still locked on her. I reach into my wallet and slam a wad of cash on the bar. “Keep the change.”

Then I grab her arm - not to hurt, not to scare. Just to move. To get her out of here before someone else from the camp realizes who she is.

She doesn’t fight me. She just follows. Maybe she’s too drunk to argue. Maybe it’s something else.

Outside, the cold hits like a harsh slap. The streetlight buzzes overhead, the air sharp enough to wake the dead.

“What the fucking game do you think you’re playing huh?!” I snap before I even mean to. I don’t look at her. Can’t. My voice is too rough, too loud. It’s so obvious I’ve been drinking too, and I’m not proud of how fast I’m spinning now.

“Do you have any idea how much danger-”

I turn… and stop.

Because she’s crying.

No sound. No gasping breaths.

Just tears. Quiet and heavy. Sliding down her cheeks one after the other like she’s been holding them back all night and they finally got tired of waiting.

I freeze.

She doesn’t seem like the type to cry. She’s too stubborn for that

But now?

She looks… small? Like something cracked open inside her and she can’t close it fast enough.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

And it fucking ruins me.

Then she stumbles. Her balance slips, and she nearly goes down. I catch her without thinking, arms locking around her waist.

“Easy~”

She leans into me, soft and trembling, forehead pressed to my chest like it’s the only safe thing left.

“Are you okay?” I ask, softer now. Voice barely there.

She nods. It’s a lie. But I don’t call her on it.

I tilt her chin gently, brush her hair back so I can see her face. Her skin’s warm. Flushed. Her eyes swim, full of tears, vodka and god knows what else.

And then… she leans in… and plants her lips against mine.

She kisses me.

Soft. Hesitant. Careful.

Like she’s afraid I’ll pull away.

Like she knows I should stop it.

I should stop it.

But I don’t.

I kiss her back.

Because I’m drunk.

So fucking drunk.

And she’s Lydia.

And no matter how hard I try -

I don’t know how to stay away from her.

Fuck.

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝟏,𝟑𝟕𝟔

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐢𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 – 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬

[xamiah]

𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐀 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 - 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫

𝐋𝐲𝐝𝐢𝐚’𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

‘… 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐣𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐯𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐲 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐩 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧.’

___

The air in the bar is thick with stale beer and cheap cologne, the kind of scent that clings to your skin long after you leave. The lights are low, the flickering neon sign casting a sickly, buzzing glow over everything, making the whole place feel like a half-remembered dream - blurred and distorted, like I’m caught between two worlds. It’s too loud - laughter, shouting and the sharp clink of glasses - everything crashing together in a chaotic hum that fills my ears and drowns out my thoughts.

I’m here… but am I really… truly… here?

My head’s spinning, the edges of everything blurring together as I try to focus, to make sense of what comes next. But I don’t know. All I know is that I’m far from any semblance of ‘home’, and there’s no going back.

A man, I’d briefly met earlier on, slides yet another drink in front of me. His grin wide as eyes stared and hands wandered. He doesn’t ask if I want the drink, or him for that matter. He just thinks knows. He doesn’t.

His fingers brush mine as he sets the glass down - smooth, practiced - and he lingers for just a second too long.

“All yours sweetheart.”

I nod without looking up, reaching for the drink like I’m on autopilot. The cold glass feels good against my skin, but it’s not enough to cool the heat building in my chest. I take a sip, then another. It burns, but it’s a dull, pleasant kind of pain. The kind that numbs you just enough so you don’t feel the other stuff… like the jagged edges of regret or the weight of knowing you’ve probably messed up again.

I don’t want to be here. Not with the men circling around me, their eyes following my every move. But I can’t leave. Not yet. Not when it’s so much easier to hide in the noise, let it wash over me until I forget my own name.

“Another round for the little lady?” The man asks, just the second I swallow my last, his voice too smooth, like he’s used to getting what he wants - whether or not the other complies.

I shrug, pushing the empty glass away. The noise in my head is getting louder, or maybe it’s the alcohol. I’m not sure anymore.

“I bet you have a lot on your mind, don’t you princess?” he continues, his voice dripping with that familiar condescension, like I’m some puzzle he’s trying to solve.

I don’t say anything. What’s the point? They won’t listen anyway. They’re only here for one thing and one thing only.

When the guy speaks again, his voice is quieter, as if he’s aware of the space between us, of the walls I’m building. “You don’t look like the type to be here,” he says, his tone almost like he’s pitying me. “What do you say we go somewhere quieter?”

I take a long sip, pretending the offer doesn’t send an unwelcome shiver through me, and that it in fact doesn’t exist altogether.

The man’s fingers graze my shoulder again, the touch far too familiar, far too persistent. My head is heavy, spinning with the alcohol swirling through my veins, but I know what he’s doing - pressing, pushing, testing my limits. I shouldn’t have stayed here, shouldn’t have let the drink and the noise cloud my judgment. I should’ve left the second he offered, but now I’m stuck.

“Come on, baby,” he slurs, his breath too close and warm against my ear. “I’ve been buying you drinks all night. Let’s go back to my place, it’s more… private.”

His words slide over me like a sickly-sweet poison, and my stomach twists. I stiffen, my hand tightening around my glass. “No thanks.” I force out, though my voice lacks conviction, the alcohol dulling my edge.

Surely I haven’t drunk that much? I’m usually a girl who can handle my drink… unless…

My eyes widen in sudden realisation. His grin only deepens, and I feel his hand move, to my knee. His hand wonders up my thigh sending a shiver down my spine as fear sets in. “Aw, come on, sweetheart. Don’t make this hard for me.”

I’m just about to tell him to fuck off when a voice, sharp and sudden, slices through the haze.

“She said no.”

The guy beside me stiffens, his gaze darting up, and I can feel the shift in the air. The new arrival isn’t just speaking - he’s commanding attention. I sense him before I see him, a presence looming behind me, heavy with something dangerous, weaving through the noise, solid and assured, like a storm on the horizon. A force barely contained. I haven’t seen his face yet, but I feel the weight of his attention, sharp and calculating.

“And who the fuck are you?” The creep demands, clearly unimpressed by the new stranger’s arrival.

“Her boyfriend,” the man lies, his voice low, with a carried edge. It’s a claim, but there’s something else to it - an unspoken promise, like a blade tucked beneath his words.

I blink, my vision still unfocused, trying to process his words. Boyfriend? That doesn’t sound right. But I decide to go along, desperate to be freed from this awful situation.

He inches closer, his hand falling lightly onto my shoulder. I flinch at the sudden contact, but it’s not meant to hurt - it’s protective, as if he’s marking me, drawing a line between me and the man beside me. The pressure of his hand is firm, steady, and strangely comforting, even as my body rebels against the closeness.

The feeling that I could be getting myself into even more trouble dawns on me… yet something inside is telling me to trust him.

The creep laughs, harsh and incredulous. “Damn, your girlfriend’s a slut. You need to find that bitch a leash - I almost had her!”

The words hit me like a slap, yet I don’t flinch. My chest tightens, but instead of backing down, anger rises like fire in my veins. “ ‘The fuck did you just say to me?” I snap, my voice cutting through the noise.

I rise off my seat, squaring up to him like there wasn’t a clear difference in size. There’s no way in hell I’m about to let him speak to me like that.

But then, before the guy can respond, a voice - low, smooth, and way too calm - whispers in my ear. “Hey, baby, let me handle this,” the stranger behind says to me, his voice smooth, gentle. “Just go over there, get yourself some water, I know Rico will sort you one out.”

I hesitate for a split second. Something in my chest tightens. I want to argue, to demand I can handle this myself, but I don’t… I trust him.

So I nod, barely, and push away from the bar, feeling off balance as I walk to the other side. I order a water, just like the mystery man had told me to. I try to ground myself, hoping the dull taste will sober me up just enough to stop this dizzying spin of confusion.

The bartender places the drink in front of me, and I lean forward, fingers clutching the cold glass as I slide it across the surface. My head’s still heavy, but I force myself to focus on the straw. I stir it absently, trying to clear my thoughts, my eyes fixed on the small, insignificant action.

The tension of the moment still wraps around me, a cloud of unease I can’t shake. I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol or the adrenaline, but my body’s wound tight, the need to escape bubbling up with each passing second.

Just as I bend further, my attention flickers at the sound of footsteps approaching. That asshole from earlier is nowhere to be seen, and for a brief second, relief floods me. At least I won’t have to deal with him again.

My ‘hero’ steps up beside me, his presence impossible to ignore. He’s taller, imposing in the dim lighting. I don’t look at him directly, but I can feel his gaze. It’s unsettling, but oddly comforting in the chaos that’s left behind.

I take another sip, my pulse still racing.

“Thank you,” I say in genuine relief. I turn toward him slightly, my words soft, but refusing to let my guard down.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.. just a little shaken up but I’ll be fine.”

“I honestly don’t know how I can repay you.” I let out a breathy laugh, shrugging my shoulders.

“Oh, well,” I hear the hesitation in his voice, “if I give you my number, maybe you could repay me with a drink sometime.” His voice is teasing, but there’s a way to it that makes my heart skip.

“That sounds…”

“Lydia!?” The man exclaims. My head whips up, and for the first time, I truly take in the stranger’s face. His jawline, his eyes… It’s him. My stomach sinks.

Billy!?

“Fuck.” I barely whisper, my mind racing as I recognize the guy standing in front of me, his face looks as though he’s seen a ghost.

There’s a scary tension between us, like either of us is sure what to do next. Do I dare try to run again? Do I even bother to explain myself?

“Hey Rico, keep the change,” Billy suddenly breaks the silence and tosses a wad of cash onto the bar, the sound of it scattering across the counter loud in the suddenly quiet space.

He doesn’t wait for the bartender to respond. His eyes lock onto mine with a quiet, terrifying intensity. He grabs me by the arm, and before I can say another word, he’s escorting me out of the bar, the heavy thud of his boots in rhythm with my racing heartbeat.

Outside the bar, the cold night air hits me like a slap, dragging me back to reality. Billy’s grip on my arm is unrelenting, his fingers unknowingly digging into my skin as he pulls me away from the noise and chaos inside.

“What the fucking game do you think you’re playing huh?!” Billy snaps, although he slurs his words, his voice is still just as low and dangerous.

I open my mouth to respond, to say something - anything - but the words catch in my throat. He doesn’t give me a chance to speak.

“Do you have any idea how much danger-” Billy starts, his tone still sharp and controlled. But then he stops dead in his tracks.

The words die on his lips when he sees it. The flood of tears pouring from my eyes, streaming down my face faster than I can wipe them away. I’m not sobbing - just silently crying, each tear a weight I didn’t realize I was carrying until now.

Billy stares at me, his face hard, then softens in the space between his words. For a moment, he’s taken aback, and I can see it in his eyes - a flash of something he wasn’t expecting. He’s never seen me like this before. Not vulnerable. Not broken. Not like this.

“Thank you,” I whisper, the words escaping my lips before I can stop them, knowing that I was in danger. That he saved me.

Before I can say anything more, I stumble, the world tipping dangerously to one side. The alcohol is catching up to me. I try to steady myself, but my legs give out, and I feel myself falling.

Billy's hand shoots out, catching me effortlessly before I hit the ground. "Easy~" he warns me gently, his grip is strong and firm, and I let myself lean into it, my vision spinning.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice is so much softer now, the hard edge gone. His hand brushes against my cheek as he tilts my face up to check that I’m alright, and the tenderness in his touch almost makes me forget where we are. I nod, barely able to focus on him, but the warmth of his concern grounds me for a moment.

Something inside me shifts in that instant. The frustration, the anger, the confusion - it all melts away. Without thinking, without questioning it, I lean forward, closing the space between us…

and press my lips to his.

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝟐,𝟎𝟗𝟏

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 - 𝐋𝐲𝐝𝐢𝐚

[xamiah]

𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐀 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 – 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐝 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞'𝐬 𝐚 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦

𝐋𝐲𝐝𝐢𝐚'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

"𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐭," 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐬. "𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐞, 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐛 𝐢𝐧 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭. 𝐊𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧."

___

By the time the dinner bell rings, the sun is bleeding low over the trees, dragging shadows like claw marks across the gravel paths. The air feels thick, burnt gold and heat-strained; like the entire camp is holding its breath.

I barely made it through the day.

Arts and crafts. Trust activities. Relay races with smiles so wide they cracked. I moved like I was on strings, nodding, smiling, saying the right words in the right tone. But inside, I was already gone. Already packing. Already in the back of that truck.

Tonight isn't about escape. It's about erasure.

The food hall's half full, bathed in the rust-orange dusk. Kids shovel Gumbo without looking up. Camp Leaders stir their coffee like it's the only thing tethering them to consciousness. I keep my pace steady, eyes low. I know how to move like I belong.

But I still feel the eyes. Could be paranoia. Could be the way my backpack sags just a little too heavy under the table.

Jackson slides into the seat across from me without a sound, like he materialized from shadow.

He doesn't speak at first. Just tears a roll in half and eats it like he's got nowhere else to be. Then, leaning in with his elbows braced on the table, he speaks low.

"You all set?"

I nod once. My heart's beating in my ears. I try to chew a bite of something, but my throat's gone dry.

"Dad pulls out at six. You'll have fifteen, tops, once the engine's on. Be fast… invisible, even."

I glance sideways. "And you're sure he doesn't know?"

Jackson snorts softly. "Nah. Thinks I'm helping him haul junk. Long as I lift the heavy stuff and don't ask questions, he doesn't either."

I breathe in. The air tastes metallic.

He shifts and reaches under the table, sliding something toward me. It's wrapped in a hoodie, the shape unmistakably wrong for clothes.

I hesitate, glance down. "You brought me... a sweater?"

"Not exactly," he says, and keeps chewing his trail mix like this is any other night.

I unwrap it just enough to see the neck of a bottle gleam back at me.

"Jesus. Vodka?"

"Unopened," he says. "For the road. You're gonna need it."

I look up. My smile comes without effort, but it's not sarcasm. It's real.

The memory that the bottle's not just comfort... it's a blanket for a park bench, enters my mind. Then that smile fades fast. The drink is fire when the night turns to concrete. It's a last resort when there's nowhere to land. I've done this before. I know exactly how cold the dark can get.

I take it, tucking it deep into my bag like it's something sacred.

"Thanks Jack," I say "Really- I mean it."

Jackson doesn't reply. Just gives me that sorrowful smile, one that tells me he might be regretting helping me with this escape. Though it's my only option at this point.

He stands first. Hands in his hoodie. Quiet.

"Ten minutes. Janitor's shed. Don't be late."

I nod. He's gone before the sentence finishes.

Soon I'm back in the cabin, glancing at a digital alarm clock aside someone's bed that reads : 5:53 pm.

My hands are quick, practiced. Hoodie. Socks. Toothbrush. The vodka's nestled in the hoodie like a secret. I zip the bag slowly. Quietly.

There are no goodbyes in this bag. No keepsakes. No breadcrumbs.

I'm not running away. I'm vanishing.

Outside, the light's dying in layers, bruised purple and terracotta bleeding through the trees. The air feels charged. Electric. Like it knows.

I shoulder the bag and walk soft, every sound amplified. Gravel under my shoes. A screen door creaking open somewhere behind me. Laughter in the distance, fading.

Then quiet.

I slide behind the janitor's shed.

Jackson's already there, pacing with his hands stuffed in his pockets, mouth tight like he's chewing words he doesn't want to say.

"You good?" he asks, eyes locking with mine.

"Yeah."

Then, the sound we've been waiting for - the low growl of a truck engine coughing to life.

It shoots a bolt of lightning through my chest.

"This is it," he says, eyes on the corner of the shed. "When I open the tailgate, climb in fast. Keep your head down."

I nod. But I don't move yet.

I look at him one last time.

"Thanks," I say. "For everything."

He exhales sharply, like holding it in was starting to hurt. "That's what friends do, right?"

There's a long pause.

"You'll be okay." he says. Not a question. Not a guess. A decision.

"Yeah." I reply. And this time, I almost believe it.

He grips the strap of my backpack and gives it a quick tug, like he's checking if I'll hold.

Then he lets go.

"Go."

I throw the bag in first, then scramble into the bed of the truck. The metal is warm from the sun and stinks of rust and old oil. Jackson tosses a sheet over me - faded, scratchy, familiar.

No words.

Just motion.

It happens all too quickly for me to process any ounce of fear or secondary thoughts.

The truck jolts as his Dad climbs in. Doors slam. Voices. Casual.

Then we're moving.

The ride is brutal at first - gravel knocking into my spine, knees biting into the metal. I keep still. Keep small. The sheet clings to my skin. My breath fogs beneath it.

But I don't move.

Not even when my foot cramps. Not when the air shifts and I know we've passed the outer fence. I only peek when I feel it - the cool bite of freedom pressing in.

Trees race by. The camp is behind me now.

Gone.

I close my eyes. Inhale once. Sharp.

This is it.

Perfect.

Eventually, the truck slows. Gravel crunches. The engine dies.

I wait.

Voices murmur. Then footsteps. A door slams again... fading.

I move.

Fast.

Peel back the sheet. Grab the bag. Drop to the ground with a grunt muffled by adrenaline.

We're pulled over outside a worn-down bar. Flickering neon. A crooked bus stop sign beside a rusted-out bench. Beyond that, a convenience store that looks half-abandoned.

I approach the stop. No schedule. Just a warped metal sign and a few faded numbers like ghost instructions.

Great.

I duck into the bar. The door creaks like a warning. Inside, the air is stale beer, grease, and ghosts. A jukebox murmurs something old and twangy. No one looks up. Or maybe they do, and they just don't care.

The bartender's cleaning a glass, arms thick and tattooed, face unreadable.

"Bus schedule?" I ask, trying to sound casual.

He chuckles. It's a low, gravelly thing. "Bus? At this hour? You're joking, right?" He shakes his head. "Ain't no bus till Monday."

My stomach drops into my shoes.

"You stranded?" he asks, half-smirking.

I hesitate. "I'm... uh... figuring things out."

He squints at me, then shrugs. "Mystery girl. I like it." He taps the counter. "First one's on the house."

I should say no. I know I should.

But my hands are still trembling. My brain is racing. The world feels like it's tilting off its axis.

"Sure," I hear myself say.

He pours something clear and sharp into a glass and slides it over.

I take it.

The vodka burns on the way down, but I don't flinch.

Outside, the neon stutters, casting my reflection onto the window: a girl alone, with nowhere to go but forward.

I grip the glass like it's the only solid thing left.

I breathe.

I'm not safe.

Not yet.

But I made it out.

And that has to count for something.

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝟏,𝟑𝟎𝟎

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 - 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫

[xamiah]

𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐀 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞 – 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫

𝐋𝐲𝐝𝐢𝐚'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

'𝐇𝐞'𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞! 𝐇𝐞'𝐬 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐭. 𝐀 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩-𝐛𝐲-𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫!'

___

The cafeteria door thuds shut behind me.

I keep my head down, cutting toward a less crowded pathway. Past the dead water machines, rust-bitten drainpipes, and that one window with the spiderweb crack nobody ever fixed. I don't want to see anyone. I don't want anyone to see me.

Suddenly, a hand clamps around my arm. Firm. Fast. Not rough - just sure of itself, like whoever it is didn't pause long enough to question the decision.

My body reacts before my brain does - adrenaline spikes. Breath catches sharp in my chest. I twist, ready to shove them off, throw elbows if I have to.

Then I see his face.

Jackson.

His expression is unreadable, tight around the edges, focused like he's on a clock I don't know is ticking.

"Come with me," he says, already pulling away, expecting me to follow.

I jerk my arm back, hard enough to make the muscles in my shoulder bite. "Why?"

He doesn't slow down. Just tosses the words over his shoulder like he's tired of repeating himself.

"Lydia, stop being difficult."

God. If I had a dollar for every time someone's said that.

Still, I follow. Not because he said to. Because I'm curious. Because something in his voice said this matters and by the way he was acting earlier on, I knew something was on his mind.

We cut past the cabins, gravel shifting underfoot, until he stops beside the janitor's shed. It leans a little like it's trying to collapse in on itself. Paint peeling. Smells like bleach and rust and something old trapped in the walls. The kind of place people stop seeing even though it's right there.

Jackson disappears behind it without a word.

I pause, just a second. Then I follow.

The wind dies the moment the shed blocks it. The noise of the camp fades, tucked behind wooden walls. All that's left is the sound of lakewater slapping against the shore, and the silence hanging in the space between us.

"This better be good," I mutter, folding my arms across my chest like armor.

He leans back against the shed like he's done this in front of a mirror. Arms crossed. One foot braced behind him. Trying to look casual. He doesn't quite pull it off.

"If you needed help getting out of here," he says, "you could've just asked."

I blink.

For a moment, I forget how to stand. My thoughts skid sideways. I was expecting a warning, just like the others gave me. A threat, maybe? Not... that.

It's not kindness in his voice. Not pity either. It's worse - it's genuine. Like it hadn't even occurred to him not to offer.

"Thanks," I say flatly, trying to reel myself back in. "Not really my style."

He shrugs. Half a smile. "Maybe it should be."

I shift my weight, half-ready to bolt. "I've got it handled."

I start to move, but he steps just enough to block my path. Not threatening. Just… there. Like a question.

"It's just-" he starts, then drags a hand through his braided hair. "You've got part of it wrong. The security shift? It usually changes at 7:15. Not 7:30. But it's inconsistent. Depends on who's on."

My stomach dips, sharp and sudden. That wasn't in my notes. That's a crack in the plan. And cracks mean failure. Shit.

"They're sometimes early," he adds, watching me closely. "Sometimes late. You can't count on them."

I narrow my eyes. "Why are you telling me this?"

He hesitates. A beat too long. Like he's thinking through his options and not loving any of them.

"Rachel trusts you," he says finally. "Any friend of hers is a friend of mine."

I almost laugh. Almost. If he knew the things Rachel doesn't know about me, he wouldn't be saying that. To think of it - I'm not sure Rachel knows anything about me.

"Me and Rachel aren't exactly... whatever," I mutter. "What else?"

Jackson pushes off the wall. Crosses his arms tighter now. Less cool-boy stance, more bracing himself.

"Every Friday, the janitor pulls in around noon. Black pickup. Leaves by six. Always stops at a bar just off the main road. Right next to this little corner store."

The pieces fall into place fast. Too fast. It feels like someone handed me the answer key to a test I didn't think anyone else knew I was taking.

"You hide in the truck bed," he says. "He drives off. When he stops, you jump out. Catch a ride. Disappear. Done."

He's got it all figured out for me! He's given me the cheat sheet. A step-by-step guide on how to disappear! How to be free of this hell hole.

Though... It's too easy. Too exact. Like he's been planning this escape longer than I have. I stare at him. I stare at him, momentarily lost for words. "How the hell do you know all this?"

He shifts his weight, eyes flicking down. A pause. Then, like pulling off a bandage: "My dad," he says, not looking at me at first. His voice is quieter when it finally comes. "He's the janitor."

I blink.

It takes a second to register - not just the connection, but the fact that he gave it to me. Voluntarily. No leverage. No angle.

"Oh," I say, quieter than I meant to.

I don't know what I expected. But it definitely wasn't this. Not something personal.

He's not just helping - he's risking something.

I nod once, steady. "Okay."

He steps closer. His voice drops, softer now.

"Don't tell anyone. Please. I helped you. We're friends, right?"

His eyes search mine. He's not demanding anything. He's just... asking... pleading as though this is one of his deepest, darkest secrets.

I nod. "I won't tell a soul. You have my word."

Relief breaks across his face like sunrise. He exhales like he's been holding his breath for weeks. His shoulders drop. His mouth twitches into a crooked smile - honest and a little shy.

Then his hand brushes mine.

"You know," he says, quiet enough that the wind almost steals it, "when you get outta here... maybe we could keep in touch?"

It barely registers. My mind is racing. Friday. Noon. Black truck. A plan that actually works. That's clean. That's real.

"Yeah, sure, Jack. Whatever," I say, distracted, eyes unfocused. I'm already replaying the route in my head. Over and over. Checking for gaps.

Still, I grin. I can't help it. There's air in my lungs again. A crack in the walls. A way out.

Then I hug him.

Quick. Tight. Reflexive. But real. His chest is warm and his arms stay awkwardly at his sides for a second before he gently pats my back, stiff and uncertain.

"Thank you," I say into his hoodie. "Seriously. Thank you."

When I pull back, his eyes are different.

There's a softness there. Something almost tender.

And then - he leans in.

I freeze.

His face is close. Lips parted. Eyes flicking to mine, searching for something.

"Whoa." I step back, gently but firmly.

His expression breaks like a dropped plate. Color rises in his cheeks.

"What?" he asks, voice cracking just a little.

"Look... Jackson," I say gently. "I'm flattered. But you've got the wrong impression of me."

He looks away, scratching the back of his neck. The air goes thick with silence.

"Right. Yeah… Got it."

I feel a flicker of guilt. Not the passing kind. The deeper kind - the kind that sits in your chest and doesn't budge.

Because the truth is, I do owe him. He didn't have to help me. Didn't have to tell me any of this. But he did. He handed me a way out like it was nothing, like freedom was something you could gift someone if you just wanted to badly enough.

And now he's standing here, face flushed, eyes flicking anywhere but mine. Trying to act like it didn't mean anything. Like he didn't just put himself on the line for someone who's been keeping their guard up since day one.

I step in and kiss his cheek - quick, but not careless. A thank you, wrapped in something soft. Something true.

His skin is warm, and I feel the heat of his embarrassment, sure - but also the stillness. Like for a moment, he's not second-guessing what he just did.

I rest a hand on his arm, just briefly. Letting it say what I can't quite find the words for.

"That's all you're getting," I say, and this time, my smile's real.

Because this isn't a goodbye, not yet. But it is a promise. That I see what he did. That I won't forget it.

Then I turn.

The plan clicks back into place in my head - Friday. Noon. Black truck. It's all still there, but now it feels more possible. More earned.

And this time -

I won't look back.

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝟏,𝟒𝟒𝟔

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 – 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐝 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞'𝐬 𝐚 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦

[xamiah]

𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐀 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐄𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 - 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐎𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐞

𝐋𝐲𝐝𝐢𝐚'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

' "𝐎𝐡, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐚 𝐛𝐞 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞." 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧'𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲'𝐯𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐫.'

___

I follow Billy, each step feeling like I'm trudging through wet cement. The camp buzzes with distant voices and the clatter of daily routines, but it all seems muffled, as if I'm moving through a slowed-down version of reality. My cheeks burn with humiliation; being caught - again - gnaws at my pride. I don't even glance at him. His constant presence at my failed escape attempts infuriates me. He's always there, an unyielding shadow to my fleeting hopes of freedom.

The door ahead creaks open, and Billy leads me inside, pausing to gesture toward a dimly lit hallway stretching before us. He remains silent, his face a mask of professionalism - cold and detached, as if this is just another routine task. My stomach knots, realizing that whatever semblance of control I had is slipping further away.

We reach the end of the hall, stopping in front of a door with a brass plaque that reads 'Dr Leslie's Office'. Without knocking, Billy opens the door and motions me in. The room is sterile, too clean, with a faint floral scent that only heightens my discomfort. The desk is cluttered with papers and a half-empty coffee mug, incongruous in the otherwise meticulously arranged space.

"Lydia, wait here," Billy orders, his voice low and rough, tinged with exasperation. It's not a suggestion; it's a command. I nod sharply, frustration evident in the jerk of my head, and cross my arms, fixing my glare on the floor.

Stepping inside, I hesitate before sinking into the chair across from the desk. Billy waits until I'm seated, then closes the door behind me with a definitive click - the sound of the lock engaging is unmistakable.

Time stretches in the oppressive silence. Seconds crawl by, each heavier than the last. Whether it's ten minutes or an hour, it feels like an eternity. I keep my gaze fixed on the floor, feigning indifference to the perfectly arranged potted plants and the cold, indifferent walls. The relentless ticking of the wall clock gnaws at my nerves, amplifying my agitation.

Finally, the door creaks open again.

"Lydia," a voice calls - soft, authoritative, yet distant. I glance up.

A woman stands in the doorway, likely in her late forties or early fifties, wearing glasses that seem slightly oversized for her face. She's dressed in a flowery blouse and cardigan, more reminiscent of a school teacher than someone poised to dissect my personal life. Her expression is calm - too calm - the practiced neutrality of someone who believes they can fix you.

"I'm Dr Leslie," she says with a slight smile, extending her hand. "I'm the counselor here at Nightwing. I understand you've been having a few issues."

Heat rises to my face, a suffocating pressure building in my chest as I fight to suppress the scorn bubbling up. Issues? Yeah, I've got a few.

Before I can filter my response, the words spill out, flat and bitter. "Oh, you gotta be fucking with me." I can't believe they've got me speaking with a fucking counsellor.

She pauses, unfazed, the corners of her lips twitching as if suppressing a smile. "Miss Westbrook, I understand your frustration, but-"

"Look, lady," I cut in, my voice sharper than intended, "save your breath, yeah? Thanks, but no thanks."

Silence hangs between us, thick and unyielding.

"So, can I go now or what?" I challenge.

She doesn't flinch. Instead, she seats herself behind the desk, folding her hands neatly in front of her. "We have a two-hour session today, Lydia. After which, you're free to go."

Two hours. I stifle a laugh. As if I can sit here, trapped in this box, discussing whatever crap she thinks will 'fix' me. Like I haven't been through this a thousand times with foster parents, social workers, and other 'well-meaning' adults who decided I was a lost cause in need of 'help.'

"Whatever," I mutter, sinking deeper into the chair, arms crossed - a physical manifestation of my disinterest.

Dr Leslie observes me for a moment, her eyes sharp behind her glasses, studying me with clinical curiosity.

"Let's start with something simple," she says, her tone calm and measured. "How are you feeling about being here at Nightwing?"

"I hate it here."

"And do you know why that is? Would you like to share?"

Silence. I refuse to elaborate.

"Tell me, Lydia, what do you want out of your time here?" she presses, her voice low and probing.

I shrug, rolling my eyes, masking my discomfort. "What, like an answer to life's big questions? Or are you talking about the shitty 'summer camp' activities? Because if that's the case, then a quick exit would be the best option, thanks."

She nods, as if expecting this. "It's okay to feel frustrated, Lydia. Many of those here do. But what I want to know is... why you are frustrated?"

I hold her gaze, considering the question, the countless reasons swirling in my mind. But what's the point?

"Why? Because I don't belong here," I state flatly. "I don't belong anywhere. And I sure as hell don't need some two-hour lecture on how to feel better about it."

Dr Leslie, once again, doesn't react outwardly, but I notice a subtle shift in her eyes. She's heard this before, no doubt. She leans forward slightly, clasping her hands on the desk.

"That's a very powerful way to feel," she says. "But what makes you think that's true? That you don't belong anywhere?"

I open my mouth, ready to snap, but the words catch in my throat. She's waiting, expecting me to pour my heart out, as if she's some kind of magical figure who can extract all the answers from me. I don't owe her that.

"Why do you think you can help?" I ask coldly.

She lets the silence linger before responding, her voice softer. "I'm not here to fix you, Lydia. I'm just here to help you figure things out."

The answer feels like a trap, so I don't respond. I don't care.

Instead, I let my gaze drift to the window on my right, watching the minutes drag on. She continues speaking, attempting to probe deeper, but I tune her out. I'm not here for therapy; I'm just here to kill time, to get through this session so I can return to feeling like crap in my own way.

When she finally announces the session is over, I feel no different. I stand, eager to leave, to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the room.

Dr Leslie stands as well, offering a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I'm glad we could talk, Lydia. I hope this session helped... in some way."

I don't bother responding. I just leave, slipping out the door like I'm being released from a cage.

The hallway is empty now, and I make my way toward the cafeteria, my stomach growling. I don't care about the session. I don't care about any of this. I'm just ready for something familiar, something that doesn't make me feel like I'm falling apart.

As I walk, my eyes catch on a schedule pinned to the wall near the staff hallway. Names, times - what looks like a security rota. I can't read all of it, but one time stands out: 7... 7:30. Could be a shift change. Maybe? I don't know. I didn't get enough time to study the whole thing before the hallway swallowed me again. But it's burned into my memory now. A thread. A maybe. Something I can pull on later, when I've got the nerve - and the chance - to run again.

The dining hall doors groan as I push them open.

Noise hits like a wave - clatter of trays, the scrape of chairs, dozens of conversations overlapping into a single dull roar. Everyone here talks like they're trying to drown something out. My jaw tightens. Every sound grates.

I scan the room. Most tables are full. The corner I claimed yesterday - the one dipped in shadow, tucked away - already taken. Some kid I've never seen is hunched over his food, earbuds in, head down. I keep moving.

Then I spot them: Rachel, Lauren, Jackson. Clustered around a table dead center of the chaos. Rachel sees me before I can pretend I haven't seen her. There's something in her face - relief, maybe? Hope? She gives a small wave.

I hesitate, just for a second. Long enough to feel it - the tug-of-war between isolation and obligation. Between staying invisible and admitting I'm not.

I sigh and head over. I can't avoid them forever.

Rachel shifts to make space. I slide into the seat beside her, forcing a tight smile. It's not at all genuine, but it's enough.

Lauren glances at me over half a sandwich. "You're not eating?"

I flick a glance at the food line. The smell of overcooked veg and mystery meat turns my stomach. "No," I say. "Not hungry." It's a lie... but who wants to eat that shit anyway?

Rachel leans in, arms resting on the table. "Where've you been?"

My mouth opens automatically - ready for some half-lie, something easy. But nothing comes out. I don't have a good excuse lined up. And even if I did, what's the point? They'd find out. Or maybe they already know.

The pause drags too long. I let out a breath, drop my gaze to the tabletop. "Tried escaping again."

The word lands with weight. Heavier than I expect. The table doesn't fall silent, but the background noise of the hall fades. Not quiet - just distant.

Rachel raises her brows. "Seriously?"

"Yeah." I let out a dry laugh, flat as it gets. "Fucked it up… again."

No one says anything at first. The air around us feels like it's holding still.

"That sucks," Rachel says finally, simple and honest.

"Yeah. Tell me about it."

I rub my palms on my jeans. The denim's rough and worn. My legs still ache from running. I can feel the ghost of adrenaline working its way out of my system.

"I'm just... tired of it," I mutter. "I'm eighteen. I don't want second chances or... discipline. I just want out."

The words come easy now. Too easy. I realize how much I've said, how raw I sound. Normally I'd pull back, toss out a joke, change the subject. Not today. I won't be here much longer. When I'm gone - really gone. I won't see any of them again. So why hold back?

They're quiet. Lauren watches me like she's processing. Jackson leans back in his chair, arms crossed, but his eyes stay on me. Like he's listening harder than he wants to admit.

Then I add, quiet, just for them, "I saw something on the way back. A schedule. On the wall near the staff hallway. Printed. Names. Times. Looked like a security rota."

Lauren perks up slightly. "You sure?"

"I didn't get to study it or anything," I admit. "But I caught one thing - 7:30. Could be a shift change. I don't know which direction, but it's printed. Official so it could matter?"

Jackson had been tapping his fingers on the table, slow and deliberate. Though now he stops and I can tell I have his attention. He's listening. Really listening.

"You're thinking of trying again?" Lauren asks. No surprise in her tone. No judgment either. Just calm. Like she already knows the answer but wants to hear me say it out loud.

I pause. Then nod. "Maybe." Absolutely.

They're watching me, all three of them. No one says 'Don't'. No one warns me I'll fail again… or worse. We've all thought about running. The difference is, I'm the one who keeps actually doing it.

"If I do," I say, voice low, "I'm going for the front entrance. I know there's a trail past the gate that leads to the road. If I time it right..."

"You won't get another warning," Jackson says. First words from him. Quiet. Firm.

"I'm not looking for warnings," I reply. "I'm looking for the way out."

They don't agree. They don't disagree. Just sit with it.

They eat in silence after that - what little eating there is. Lauren finishes her sandwich. Rachel stays quiet, but her eyes keep drifting to me, like she wants to say something and hasn't figured out how yet.

The next move's mine. But I can tell I've rattled them.

And maybe... just maybe... interested them too.

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝟐,𝟎𝟐𝟓

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞 – 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫

[xamiah]

𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐀 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐞𝐧 – 𝐀𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐋𝐲𝐝𝐢𝐚'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

'𝐖𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐟𝐟, 𝐩𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐭 𝐮𝐬.'

___

I wake to an empty cabin, the morning light cutting through the window in sharp, blinding streaks. The muffled sounds of camp filter in - voices calling out, footsteps crunching over gravel, the distant whistle blowing in the background. I should have woken up with everyone else. I should have heard the usual chaos, the scrape of bunk beds, the blaring wake up trumpet. But instead, I'm alone, disoriented, the air thick and suffocating around me. If I'm honest I'm surprised I slept through it.

Heat presses in, heavy and unrelenting, sticking to my skin before I've even thrown off the covers. It seeps through the thin walls, turning the cabin into an oven, the kind of stifling warmth that makes it hard to breathe. I pull on my clothes, each movement sluggish, my body weighed down by the heat and the unsettling quiet. Outside, the sun blazes high, already promising a day that will drag.

I drag myself outside, the heat slamming into me like a wall. The sunlight is ruthless, turning the camp into a blinding stretch of dust and movement. Kids are already running across the clearing, voices overlapping, laughter mixing with the distant sound of canoe paddles slicing through water. It's the kind of morning that should feel fresh, but instead, everything feels too loud, too bright, pressing in on me like the weight of a bad dream I haven't shaken off.

"Lydia!"

I hear my name before I see Tina, her voice cutting through the noise. When I spot her, she's exactly as I remember - clipboard clutched in one hand, a too-wide grin plastered across her face, practically vibrating with energy. She moves with purpose, like she's on a mission that only she understands, and the sight of her alone makes me want to turn around.

The last time I saw her, she was practically draped over Billy, giggling like a damn schoolgirl as she twirled a strand of hair around her finger. I remember the way she leaned too close, how her fingers lingered on his arm. It was embarrassing. Painful, even, to watch someone throw themselves at him like that. But what's worse is that he looked just as uncomfortable.

I grit my teeth, pushing the memory aside as I force myself to walk toward her. She beams as if we're old friends, as if I haven't spent the entire summer barely acknowledging her existence.

"Thought you weren't gonna show, girl!" she chirps, her voice too bright, too chipper for the oppressive heat pressing down on us.

I cringe. 'Girl?' Really? Tina might technically be in charge, but she acts like we've been best friends since birth, despite the fact that we've crossed each other's path maybe twice.

She clocks my lack of enthusiasm immediately but barrels on anyway, unfazed.

"Anyway~," she says, stretching the word out like she's filling the silence, "you're with that group today!"

She jabs a manicured finger toward a cluster of kids already hard at work, gathering supplies for what looks like - great. Raft-making.

I sigh, dragging a hand down my face. Fuck.

Barrels, ropes, and uneven planks of wood are scattered haphazardly across the ground, the pieces of some soon-to-be makeshift raft. The others are already at it, voices overlapping with excitement, their laughter ringing out like this is the highlight of their summer. I don't get it. It's just busywork dressed up as fun, another pointless exercise to keep us from doing anything actually interesting.

I sigh, dragging my feet as I make my way over.

They notice me immediately. Their smiles are polite but hesitant, their glances quick, assessing. I know that look - the uncertainty, the unspoken question hanging between us. 'What's she doing here?' They keep a careful distance, like I'm some stray dog that might snap if they get too close.

"Lydia! Nice of you to join us," the task manager says, way too chipper for someone who's probably been up since sunrise. He claps his hands together like this is supposed to be exciting. "The group could really use your help!"

"Yeah... sure." The words come out flat, empty. I don't move. Just stand there, arms crossed, watching them fumble with supplies like some half-assed construction crew.

They keep tossing ropes in my direction, calling for me to hold a plank steady, but I let the requests roll past me unanswered. I'm not here to make friends. I'm not here to play along. Let them build their damn raft - I want no part of it.

The minutes drag, stretching out the silence between me and the rest of the group. The tension is thick enough to choke on. I can feel their stares, the way their eyes flick toward me when they think I'm not looking. They whisper in hushed tones, but not quietly enough.

Lazy. Ungrateful. Trouble.

I catch the words like sharp edges against my skin, but I don't react. They don't understand. They don't know me. And I don't care enough to correct them. If this were anywhere else, if I actually wanted to be here, I'd shut them up in an instant. But it's not, and I don't. So what's the point?

Eventually, their masterpiece is complete. The so-called raft stands in the middle of the clearing, a lopsided mess of barrels, rope, and planks that barely hold together. It looks fragile, like the slightest movement will send it splintering apart. The others step back, surveying their work with cautious pride, their expressions wavering between accomplishment and doubt.

"Ready to try it out?"

The voice comes from a considerably younger boy with sandy blond hair, his face bright with excitement. He stands a little taller, waiting for approval, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.

I glance at the raft, then back at him. It takes me a second to realize what he's actually asking.

We have to ride that thing?

A flat, unimpressed, "No. Not interested."

His smile falters, eyes flickering with confusion like he hadn't even considered someone not wanting to be part of this.

"But-"

"Scram, kid. I said no." My voice comes out sharper than I intended, but I don't care. I turn away before he can protest, heading straight for the nearest patch of shade.

There's no way in hell I'm about to waste my time floating across the lake on a half-assed pile of wood and rope. Besides, I can't exactly... swim.

Yeah, yeah. Big deal. Eighteen years old and I've never even dipped a toe in a pool. Not one of my many foster parents ever bothered to teach me - too busy, too indifferent. And I never asked. Never wanted to give them another thing to hold over me.

The rest of the morning crawls by. The sun climbs higher, blistering, turning the camp into a haze of heatwaves and dust. I keep to the sidelines, arms crossed, watching as the others shove their rafts into the water, laughing when they inevitably tip over. Their excitement grates on my nerves. The heat presses down, suffocating, turning every second into something unbearable.

By the time afternoon rolls around, the rafting is finally over. I think I'm in the clear - until we're rounded up and herded down to the river for the next activity.

Kayak racing.

My stomach twists the second I see the double kayaks lined up along the water's edge, their bright plastic hulls gleaming in the sun. This time, there's no slipping away unnoticed. No standing on the sidelines.

And, because the universe hates me, I'm paired with Sandy Hair.

Fantastic.

I yank my life jacket tighter, fingers digging into the straps like that'll actually do something if this whole thing flips. My hands shake, my pulse hammering beneath my skin, but I grit my teeth and keep my face blank. No one here needs to know. No one needs to see.

We're assigned a bright red kayak, its plastic hull slick with river water. I hesitate for half a second before climbing into the front seat, my movements stiff and jerky. The second I sit, I feel his eyes on me - Sandy Hair, watching, probably debating whether he should say something. I can already imagine it. Some lame attempt at reassurance, like he knows anything about me.

But he stays quiet.

Smart move.

The whistle blows.

We shove off, paddles slicing through the water, the current immediately tugging at us. My stomach twists as the kayak rocks, the movement unnatural, unstable. I tighten my grip on the paddle, heart slamming against my ribs. The river isn't wild, but it's moving - pulling us along whether I like it or not.

I hate this. The way the water shifts beneath me, the way the kayak never feels completely still. It's worse than I thought it would be. My breath comes quicker, sharp and uneven, and my fingers are aching from how tightly I'm clutching the paddle.

I need this to be over.

So I paddle. Hard. Harder than I should, each stroke slamming into the water with more force than necessary. The kayak lurches forward, jerking against the current. I don't care. I just want to get to the end, to solid ground, to anywhere but here.

Behind me, Sandy Hair struggles to keep up, his paddle dipping awkwardly as he tries to match my frantic strokes. I hear him suck in a breath, hesitating before asking, "Hey... are you okay?"

"Just shut up and paddle," I snap, not even glancing back.

He doesn't ask again.

The paddle moves on instinct now, my arms burning, my breath tight in my chest. I focus only on getting through this - one stroke, then another, and another - until something shifts in my vision.

A break in the trees.

A road.

It winds through the forest, barely visible through the thick brush, but it's there. My chest tightens. My pulse slams against my ribs.

This could be it. This could be my way out.

My grip on the paddle tightens, and before I fully register what I'm doing, I veer sharply toward the shore. The kayak wobbles under the sudden shift, but I don't care. The boy behind me stumbles with his strokes, his voice sharp with confusion.

"What are you doing?"

I don't answer. I can't. My eyes are locked on the road, my body moving on sheer instinct. The shore rushes closer, jagged rocks lining the bank, the kayak scraping against them as I pull up hard. The sound grates against my ears, but it doesn't matter.

I drop my paddle, and remove my life jacket, heart hammering. I'm ready to jump - ready to run.

But then his hand clamps around my arm.

"We're not allowed to go that way," he says, his voice edged with panic. "We have to stay on the river."

I whirl around, yanking my arm free, fury rising like bile in my throat.

"I dare you to try and stop me." My voice is low, venomous.

He hesitates. Gulps. His eyes widen, flicking from my face to the road, caught between the rules drilled into him and the realization that I don't care. That nothing he says will make me sit back down in that kayak.

For a second, I think he might try again.

But then his shoulders slump. He lets go.

I scramble out of the kayak, my feet hitting the rocky shore, sharp stones biting into my soles. The road is just ahead - just a few steps. My chest floods with adrenaline.

"Where are you going?" he calls after me. His voice is smaller now. Less certain.

I don't answer. I just run.

The road stretches ahead, empty and endless. My breath is ragged, my pulse hammering in my ears. I don't know where it leads, but I know one thing - I have to leave.

I need to get out of here.

Before I can take another step, the low rumble of an engine shatters the quiet. My stomach clenches. A car appears in the distance, rolling toward me at a steady pace, sunlight bouncing off the windshield.

This is it. My chance.

I don't think - I just move. Sprinting forward, waving my arms, heart pounding with a desperate kind of hope. Maybe it's some clueless driver, someone who won't ask questions, someone who'll just-

Shit.

I get a better view at the unmistakably familiar car as it slows. The tires crunch over gravel as it eases to a stop beside me.

The window rolls down.

Hopper.

Of course.

Because the universe has to make a fool of me.

He stares at me, unreadable. No anger. No shock. Just that steady, knowing look, like he expected this all along. Like he's already resigned to whatever mess I was about to pull.

"Get in," he says. Calm. Casual. Like he's offering me a ride after school instead of catching me trying to disappear.

I freeze, my mind scrambling for an excuse, some way to talk my way out of this. But there's nothing. No story I can spin, no lie he'll believe.

I'm caught. Again.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I yank open the door and slide into the passenger seat, slamming it shut behind me. The familiar scent of the car - cologne, cigarettes and old coffee - hits me as I buckle the seatbelt, the click of it sealing my fate.

He pulls back onto the road, the silence between us thick and suffocating. The trees blur past, the world moving while I sit here, stuck. My fists clench in my lap, frustration burning beneath my skin.

Finally, he speaks. "You're really running from an opportunity like this?"

I glare out the window. "Tsk." The sound is sharp, biting. "Some 'opportunity'."

Hopper exhales, shaking his head. "Lydia, you know I can't let you do that. I'm taking you back."

"No." My voice is sharp, raw. I snap my head toward him, eyes blazing. "I can't go back there. I won't." I cross my arms, suddenly feeling like a stubborn child.

His hands tighten on the wheel, but his tone stays level. "You don't have a choice." He pauses, then softens. "Come on, kid. Just give it a chance."

"Why?" My voice cracks, fists tightening. "Why the hell should I? What's the point?"

His eyes flick to mine, something softer lurking behind them. "Because," he says, quiet but firm, "you deserve better than this. You deserve a chance to figure things out."

His words slam into me like a fist to the gut.

I don't respond.

Because I don't know how to admit that part of me - some small, stupid part - knows he might be right.

The rest of the drive is thick with silence, tension pressing against my skull like a vice. The road winds on, each mile pulling me closer to the last place I want to be. By the time we roll to a stop in front of camp, my jaw aches from clenching my teeth.

Hopper shifts the car into park but doesn't move. He just sits there, his hands resting on the wheel, his gaze steady on me. That damn understanding in his eyes. Like he gets it. Like he sees me.

"Lydia," he starts, voice softer now, but I refuse to let him finish.

I shove the door open, stepping out before he can trap me in whatever speech he has lined up. My legs feel like lead as I trudge toward the entrance.

And of course, Billy is waiting. Arms crossed, expression unreadable, radiating authority like he actually has some kind of power over me.

The air between us crackles, heavy with something unspoken. I hesitate for half a second, a part of me tempted to bolt - one last, desperate attempt at freedom. But then I feel it.

Hopper. Standing right behind me.

As if this isn't humiliating enough, now he's actually escorting me in. Like I'm some wayward child being dragged back to class.

I square my shoulders, force myself to meet Billy's gaze head-on. I refuse to let him see my frustration, my failure.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. "Again?" His voice is low, laced with disappointment.

"Mhm." I keep my tone flat, indifferent, like I don't care. Like this is just another day, another pointless fight I refuse to win.

Billy opens his mouth, ready to lecture me, but Hopper cuts in. "Hey. Go easy on her."

It's not a request. It's a warning. A quiet, firm command wrapped in something protective.

For the first time, Billy falters. His posture shifts, just slightly. His expression flickers for a second before smoothing over again. And in that tiny moment, I see him.

Not as the authority figure he pretends to be. Not as the guy running this camp.

Just... a kid… being given orders.

Just like me.

He exhales through his nose, eyeing me like I'm some puzzle he hasn't figured out yet. "Come with me."

I hesitate. My feet stay planted. Maybe Hopper will stop this. Maybe he'll give me some kind of out.

But he doesn't.

He just looks at me, eyes steady, voice even. "Think about what I told you, kid."

I hate the way he says it. That aggravating, patient tone. Like he actually cares.

If he cared, he'd let me go.

I don't look at him. I don't say a word.

I just turn and follow Billy, my body moving on autopilot, one foot in front of the other.

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝟐,𝟓𝟐𝟓

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐄𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 - 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐎𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐞

[xamiah]

𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐀 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐍𝐢𝐧𝐞 – 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭

𝐋𝐲𝐝𝐢𝐚'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

'𝐌𝐲 𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐲, 𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩, 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐈'𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰.'

___

Morning hits like a punch to the ribs.

My whole body aches - stiff, sore, like I slept on concrete instead of a thin bunk mattress. Pain coils in my lower back and calves, a dull burn that reminds me of every step I took last night on that walk of shame back to the cabins. Billy had yanked the cigarette from my mouth without a word, crushed it under his boot like it was nothing. The way he looked at me - tight-jawed, unreadable - still burns hotter than the smoke ever did.

Sleep barely touched me. Every time I closed my eyes, the memory replayed, stuck on loop, eating away at whatever rest I might've had.

The air in the cabin doesn't help - stale and humid, clinging to my skin like wet fabric. The blankets are tangled around my legs, sticky with sweat. I'm stuck between discomfort and exhaustion, staring up at the ceiling like it holds answers.

Outside, the woods stir. Leaves rustle, insects hum. Something small scampers through the brush. Nature waking up. I'm not ready.

And then-

SLAM!

The door crashes open.

"Jackson, Lauren, Lydia, Rachel - up. Now."

Billy's voice slices through the air like a blade, no patience, no warmth. Just command.

I groan, grabbing my pillow and smashing it over my face. "You have got to be fucking kidding me."

I peek out from under it. Most of the cabin doesn't even flinch. One kid groans, another throws an arm over his eyes. But they're not the targets. We are.

Billy steps inside like he owns the place. His boots thud heavy against the wood floor, echoing louder than they should. He flips the light on and the cabin is instantly drowned in harsh yellow. Every flaw, every mess, every miserable face illuminated.

"I said up." His arms are crossed, jaw tight, voice flat with warning. "Sixty seconds. After that, I'll get this entire cabin up with you."

Yeah. Fucking right.

"Get the fuck up!" someone snaps from across the room, hurling a pillow at Jackson. It hits him in the back but he barely reacts, just shifts slightly like a sloth being swatted.

Can't even blame the guy. No one wants to be dragged into our punishment. We're the unfortunate ones this morning... lucky us.

I scan the room, lazily gazing over to the others. Rachel curses under her breath, low and venomous. She sits up with a groan, hair wild, eyes squinting against the light. She looks like she could bite someone.

Lauren's slower, dragging a hand across her face like she's trying to erase herself. Her fingers press hard into her temples, willing herself into wakefulness. It's not happening.

Jackson... Jackson looks dead. He moves like gravity tripled just for him - legs swinging off the bunk, head down, spine curved. His eyes are barely open. He doesn't speak. Doesn't react. Just sits there like a machine that never got the memo it was supposed to be human.

I don't move. Not yet. I'm too pissed off, too tired, and choking on everything I can't say.

This is bullshit.

I shoot Billy a look as I sit up, every muscle in my body screaming. "Do you wake up this pleasant every morning, or just when you're barking orders?"

Billy doesn't react. He doesn't so much as twitch. In fact, he doesn't even look at me, just stares off into the back of the cabin. "Get moving."

That tone. The one that grates on my nerves every time I hear it. It's the same one he used last night when he yanked the cigarette from my lips. The same one that said, 'You like causing trouble, don't you?'

My fingers curl into the blanket, but I bite my tongue.

He's already won... this time.

I mutter something under my breath - too low for him to catch, not that he'd care - and shove the covers back. The air bites at my legs as I stand, joints stiff, muscles still aching. I rake a hand through my hair, thick with uncontrollable waves and knots. Behind me, the others start to move, slow and heavy, not because they're afraid of him exactly, but because no one has the energy to deal with the fallout if they don't.

"Outside." Billy says, turning on his heel and striding out the door - he knows we'll follow.

Rachel shoots me a look as we shuffle after him, her expression clear: This is complete bullshit.

I couldn't agree more.

After getting dressed for the day, the four of us trail outside. The air hits us immediately, cold enough to bite. Not freezing, but sharp, a complete contrast to the unbearable heat of the cabin. The sky is still somewhat dark, the last remnants of night bleeding into the edges of the horizon. The camp is quiet, everyone else still wrapped up in their bunks, sound asleep.

Julie, from last night, waits for us by the clearing, arms crossed over her chest, her face a mask of exhausted disapproval.

"Well," she says, voice dripping with sarcasm, "since the four of you seem to have so much energy to burn in the middle of the night, we figured we'd put it to good use."

The pit in my stomach hardens.

Billy stands beside her, looking way too pleased with himself. The smirk isn't obvious - it's not a full curve of his lips, not an outright 'I told you so' - but it's there. A glint at the corner of his mouth, the easy shift of his stance, like this is exactly what he wanted.

His eyes linger on me longer than the others, like I'm the biggest screw up of the bunch. It's deliberate, I can tell.

"Raking," he says. "Lifting. Cleaning. Whatever needs doing." He pauses, letting the weight of it settle. "No breaks until lunch."

Lauren exhales hard, the sound sharp in the quiet morning. Her breath curls in the cold air, disappearing just as quickly as it came. She shifts on her feet, arms crossed tightly over her chest, knuckles white against her sleeves.

Rachel's lips press into a thin line, her jaw so tight I can almost hear her grinding her teeth. Her fingers twitch at her sides like she wants to punch something - or someone.

Jackson... well I'm not sure if whether or not he's sleepwalking. His shoulders slump forward, and for a second, he just stares at the ground like he's mentally bracing himself.

I say nothing. I refuse to give Billy the satisfaction of seeing my frustration, my exhaustion, anything. I just keep my expression blank, my spine straight, my fists curled tight in the sleeves of my hoodie.

Let him look. Let him wait.

He's not getting a damn thing from me.

We're marched to the front of the camp - right by the entrance, like they're taunting us with what we can't have. Beyond the tall sign, trees stretch tall and wild, just out of reach. A gravel road winds off into nowhere, and for a second, the sight of it makes my chest tighten. Freedom, ten feet away, and completely useless.

They split us up along the perimeter, assigning jobs like they mean something. Billy shoves a rake at me. I snatch it from his hands with more force than necessary, like the anger behind it might land somewhere under his skin. He doesn't react. Of course he doesn't.

The hours blur. Chores bleed together in the heat and the dust.

Dirt cakes my palms. Sweat clings to my hairline. My arms are heavy, aching with that deep, slow burn that promises I'll still feel it tomorrow. I drag the rake across the pavement - bristles scraping concrete, loud and sharp in my ears. Over and over. The muddy leaves smear more than they gather, clumping into uneven piles that the wind keeps trying to undo.

The others are spread out near the fence, hunched over their own miserable tasks. I don't look at them. I can't. Something sour twists in my gut - blame, even though I know it isn't fair. But this is what I get for trying to belong. For thinking friendship wouldn't cost me something.

Maybe if I'd stayed in the cabin a little longer, I could've slipped past this. Or maybe one of them sold me out. I don't want to believe it - but the thought sticks, bitter and stubborn. I've learned better than to trust the people closest to me. They're the ones who get you in the end.

Billy watches, of course.

He doesn't help. Doesn't lift a damn finger. Just stands there, arms crossed, expression blank, like this is all beneath him. Like we're beneath him.

A few hours ago, one of the other workers - some smug asshole in a camp vest - swapped in for Julie. He's been tossing out little comments ever since, trying to get a rise out of us.

"Missed a spot," he says for the third time, voice thick with boredom and mockery. "You kids ever do real work before?"

Each word is designed to chip away at whatever patience we've got left. Push us just far enough to snap, so they can drag us off and call it discipline.

I clench my jaw.

"You sure you're not just dragging this out to make yourself look busy?" he adds, louder now, stepping closer to me.

My grip tightens around the rake. I focus on the rhythm - drag, scrape, burn. The way the handle digs into my palms. The heat building in my shoulders. Anything but his voice.

I don't look up. I don't give him the satisfaction. I refuse to snap.

But I do glance sideways. I see Billy. He's still watching. Eyes locked on me like he's waiting for something - waiting to see which way I'll break. He's not like the other guy. He doesn't run his mouth or throw cheap jabs. He just stares, quiet and unreadable. Cold.

And in some ways, that's worse.

Maybe it's just because it's him.

By the time we're finally let go, the sun's high enough that the air's starting to feel like it's been simmering in a pot all morning. It's lunchtime. The camp has shifted into its usual hum of activity, chatter and laughter rising from the clearing near the cafeteria. The smell of whatever excuse they're calling food today drifts through the air.

But none of it matters.

My muscles burn from hours of labor, and every step feels like it's dragging a weight behind me. I barely feel the ache anymore, just the coldness from the judgement that's been lingering in my mind. The way the other kids smirked and whispered as they passed, their eyes quick to judge, quick to find amusement in our misery. A joke here, a whispered comment there. I'd heard enough to know I was the punchline. The thought claws at me, building in my chest, a knot of simmering rage I don't know how to release. The whole camp seemed to get a kick out of watching us sweat, watching us break.

One guy in particular stood out, he'd caught my eye again. The same guy I'd punched in the basketball hall - his nose twice the size now, swollen and twisted, a bruise dark enough to stretch from the bridge of it down to his under-eye. It must've been a hell of a punch.

He'd laughed and kicked a pile of my leaves, scattering them without a care, like I was nothing more than a bump in his way.

I hadn't moved. Hadn't said a word. But the anger sat there, simmering just beneath my skin, thick and bitter. It still lingered, gnawing at me, crawling up my chest. Deep down, I'd wanted to swing the rake at him, to see if that smug look would still be there after I knocked it off his face. Part of me still wanted it, even now.

Rachel, Lauren, and Jackson walk behind me, their steps slow but synchronized like they've been through this enough times. I can feel them glancing over, their gazes flicking between each other and me, as if they're waiting for something. Some kind of acknowledgment. A word. A glance that says we're still in this together. But when I don't offer it, when I don't slow my pace or meet their eyes, the quiet stretches too long.

They know.

They know that I'm done.

At the cafeteria, they head toward the long rows of picnic tables, the chatter of the other kids too loud to ignore. I see them sit together, their heads bowed close as they talk, the familiarity of their easy camaraderie sharp in contrast to how alone I feel in this moment.

I don't follow.

Instead, I turn and find a bench at the far end of the hall, the solitude wrapping around me like a cloak, and I pull it tighter. I sit alone.

For the first time today, I feel a fraction of peace. It's not real peace - not the kind I want - but it's the only peace I've got.

And it's mine.

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝟐,𝟏𝟏𝟏

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐞𝐧 – 𝐀𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭

[xamiah]

𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐀 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐄𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 – 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐬

𝐋𝐲𝐝𝐢𝐚'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

' "𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞, 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮?" '

___

The cool night air curls around me as I slip behind the cabin, each step deliberate, my pulse steady but alert. I don't know what I was expecting when I followed the voices, but when I finally catch sight of the small group gathered near the clearing, a wave of relief washes over me.

Rachel.

I'm not exactly close with her, but today I've learned that in a place like this, any familiar face is better than none. She's sitting cross-legged in the grass, her body animated as she leans in to whisper something to the others. Two people sit with her - a guy with dark braids falling messily into his face, his smirk growing as Rachel says something. And a girl, smaller than the rest, with delicate features and sharp, observant eyes, who watches quietly, her lips curled in faint amusement.

For a moment, I hesitate. I could turn around, give them their privacy. But the thought of returning to the cabin alone, to the oppressive silence, makes my skin itch. The boredom would be unbearable...

Screw it.

I take a slow step forward, my voice barely a murmur. "Psst! Rachel!"

Her head snaps up, eyes narrowing into the darkness. The others freeze, their bodies stiffening in response. Before they can react, I step into the clearing, hands raised in a gesture of surrender. "It's just me."

Recognition flickers in Rachel's gaze, and she visibly relaxes, a sly grin spreading across her face. "Lydia, you nearly gave us a heart attack," she hisses, pressing a finger to her lips. "Shh! Get over here."

I step closer, my curiosity outweighing my hesitation. The grass brushes against my legs as I lower myself into the circle. That's when I spot it - the bottle Rachel's holding. A quarter-empty bottle of... whiskey? My eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and she catches the look, her grin widening.

She pats the ground beside her, a silent invitation, I shuffle closer to her. "You didn't think we were just out here to talk, did you?" Rachel teases, her eyes glinting under the moonlight. She gestures to the others. "Lydia, this is Jackson, Lauren. Jackson, Lauren - Lydia."

I nod at them, offering a polite but detached greeting.

Jackson's sitting back, slouched effortlessly, his dark skin catching the faintest glow of moonlight. His braids are tucked behind his ears now, just enough to reveal a sharp jawline, his eyes gleaming with mischief. He looks like the kind of guy who can talk his way out of anything - or into it.

Lauren, on the other hand, is smaller, wiry, with wide brown eyes that make her look almost innocent. Her choppy auburn hair is a mess of loose, wavy strands, softening the sharpness of her features. She doesn't speak much, but the way she watches everything - like she's always two steps ahead - makes me wary. I can't tell if she's sizing me up or just observing.

I can't help but glance at the whiskey bottle again. "Where'd you get that?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.

Rachel leans in closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, as if she's about to reveal the secret to the universe. "Oh, this?" she says, holding the bottle up like a trophy. "We stole it from Hargrove's cabin," she grins, clearly proud. "Thought we deserved a little reward after today's bullshit."

I blink, momentarily taken aback by their boldness. Before I can respond, Jackson's already passing me the bottle. "Here. Try some."

I hesitate only for a second before I take a long swig. The liquid burns its way down my throat, stronger than anything I've had before, but the warmth spreads quickly, dulling the edge of the night's chill.

Jackson leans back, propping himself up on his elbows, his eyes casually sizing me up. "Saw you earlier," he says, his voice lazy but sharp. "Nice shot, by the way. I'm pretty sure you broke that dude's nose." He laughs and there's a hint of admiration in his tone, a quiet respect tucked beneath the nonchalance. "You've got guts. Most people would've caved when one of the golden boys starts throwing their weight around."

"Yeah," Lauren adds, finally speaking up, her voice smooth but laced with dry amusement. "That took some nerve. He definitely had it coming."

Her dark eyes meet mine, sharp and calculating, as if she's trying to figure me out. For a second, I get the feeling she sees something in me that I can't even see in myself. But just as quickly, her expression softens, and she leans back, the moment gone as if it never existed.

I shrug, a flicker of pride igniting in my chest despite myself. "He pissed me off. I wasn't just gonna let it slide." I feel a small bubble of anger rise in my gut as I'm reminded of hours before. I should've finished that prick off.

"He's probably lucky Hargrove got involved when he did, right Lydia?" Rachel chuckles, taking another swig of the whiskey before handing it off to Lauren. "Told ya he was tough."

"Nah," I scoff, shaking my head. "He just thinks he is."

Jackson snorts, taking the bottle back from Lauren with a careless gesture. "You know what's worse?" he asks, his voice dripping with annoyance. "He won't even give us his fucking name. Like he thinks he's some big, mysterious authority figure."

"Tell me about it," Rachel agrees, shaking her head. "It's been tormenting me since my first summer here."

"I bet it's 'cause he's got some embarrassing name," Jackson muses, leaning forward, his lips curling into a grin. "Like... like..."

"Billy?" I offer with a smirk, testing the waters.

"Yeah, like - wait..." Rachel's eyebrows shoot up, the wheels turning in her head. "That's not actually his name, is it?"

"Mhm hm." I nod, trying to suppress my own grin.

"Whoa," Lauren says, her voice low and impressed. "You're good."

Rachel whistles, low and slow. "Billy, huh? I did not see that one coming." She lets out a short laugh, shaking her head at her inner thoughts. "Sounds like he should be coaching high school gym, not running this hellhole."

"It just... doesn't fit, does it? You'd expect something more intimidating," Lauren remarks, knotting her brows together then shrugging.

"Or at least something that sounds like he means business," Rachel says, rolling her eyes.

"Billy? Please. That's the kid who gets shoved in a locker, not the one doing the shoving." Jackson chimes in.

Our laughter rises for a moment, a wave of defiance that feels good. A small act of rebellion. The sound almost blows our cover, but it fades into the night, blending with the wind.

As the laughter dies down, I take a drink, beginning to explain how I learnt of his name. "I overheard it when I was washing up that night. That camp leader Tina was majorly hitting on him," I say, pulling a face. She's such a try-hard. "She said they went to school together."

Jackson suddenly sits up straighter. "Wait. I know Tina went to Hawkins High! This all makes so much sense now."

Rachel tilts her head. "What makes sense?"

Jackson gives us a look like we should already know. "He's Billy Hargrove."

"Duh," Rachel says. "We just figured that out."

"No, no," Jackson says, clearly not done. "I mean Billy Hargrove - the guy played for the Tigers. I heard he was our basketball star. I know of his little sister too, Max. She's a year older than us."

"Well, that's... something," I mumble, taking another long swig from the bottle. The burn eases the tightness in my chest, makes everything feel lighter, more untouchable.

"Damn, how'd a guy like him end up working in this place?" Jackson mutters, yet, none of us seem to find an answer.

The conversation drifts, winding through complaints about camp, shared grudges, and half-hearted jokes that make the night feel a little less suffocating. Laughter comes easily, the kind that feels stolen, like it shouldn't exist here. The whiskey bottle makes its rounds, dulling the edge of the day's bullshit, warming the chill in the air.

Then, Rachel exhales, stretching her legs out in front of her with a lazy ease. "You know, I could really go for a smoke right about now."

A grin tugs at my lips. "Wait here," I tell them, standing up with deliberate slowness, careful to not get us caught.

I slip back toward the cabin, moving like a shadow. Inside, the others are asleep, their breathing steady and oblivious. I kneel by my bed, feeling for the cool metal of my tin hidden behind the frame. Gotcha! I pry it open. Only taking out what I need; a pack of cigarettes and my silver lighter.

This lighter is my absolute favourite — a sleek, silver Zippo with an engraving on the side. It used to belong to Jim Hopper. I swiped it from his desk once, a little souvenir so to speak. I'll never be seen without it.

Tucking the tin back into its hiding spot, I head outside. I pull out a cigarette, stick it between my lips, and flick the Zippo. The flame flares to life. I inhale deeply, letting the smoke fill my lungs before exhaling slowly, watching the haze drift into the air. God it's been a while since I've had this feeling. The cool night air mixes with the smoke, leaving a lingering taste in my mouth as I walk back. But just as I step into the clearing-

A bright beam of light slices through the darkness, blinding me.

I freeze, my hand instinctively rising to shield my eyes. My heart stutters in my chest.

"Miss Westbrook." The voice is sharp, disapproving.

My stomach plummets. I turn, squinting against the light, and spot an old woman with the flashlight - Julie... or something like that. And standing right next to her... Billy.

Shit.

I watch, cringing as the beam sweeps over the others - Rachel, Jackson, Lauren. We're all caught like deer in headlights.

Billy steps forward, lowering his flashlight so it's not directly in my face. But his expression is worse than the blinding light - cold, sharp, pissed. His blue eyes, usually unreadable, are now burning with frustration.

"What do you think you're playing at?" he demands, his voice low but sharp. "Out here in the middle of the night, drinking and smoking like it's some damn party?" He says gesturing up the now empty bottle that he's just confiscated.

Silence. We all know we're caught.

Billy exhales sharply, as if the whole situation is beneath him. "Lockdown. No more sneaking out. No more late-night bullshit. You're lucky I'm not kicking some of you out, separating the lot of you. But if this happens again, you won't just be dealing with me. Got it?"

We nod, all of us.

Julie clears her throat, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "Chores at dawn. I suggest you get some sleep while you can."

The group shuffles away, following Julie in strained silence. But just as I turn to follow them...

"Not so fast, Westbrook."

Billy's voice slices through the night like a blade - sharp, commanding, and final.

I freeze mid-step, my teeth grinding together at the sheer audacity of it. The way he says my name, like he owns it, like he owns me in this moment, makes something hot and frustrated coil in my chest. A shiver skates down my spine, but I force my shoulders to stay squared, refusing to let him see it.

His words are simple, but they carry weight, pressing down like an unseen hand on my throat. I don't have to turn around to know he's stepping closer - I feel it, the slow shift in the air, the way his presence pulls the space around us tighter, making everything feel smaller, suffocating.

My hands curl into fists at my sides. What now?

Billy's eyes flick over me, sharp and assessing. "You like causing trouble, don't you?" His voice is low, almost mocking, like he's already decided the answer.

Heat flares in my chest, just by the way he says it - like I'm some reckless kid acting out for attention - makes my blood boil. Like he thinks he's got me all figured out.

Before I can say anything, his hand is at my face, so close I almost flinch. His fingers press gently, but firmly, against the tip of the cigarette I forgot was dangling from my lips, snuffing it out with a calculated ease that leaves me momentarily stunned. The smoldering ember falls away, and before I can process it, he's pulling it from my mouth completely, his fingers grazing my lips in a way that feels... deliberate.

I open my mouth to say something, anything, but no words come. The air is thick now, crackling between us as he steps even closer, the tension palpable.

"Hand them over," he says, his voice low and unwavering, carrying the kind of authority that makes the air between us feel charged.

I scoff, shifting my weight onto one foot, trying to mask the sudden, erratic beat of my pulse. "Hand what over?" My voice is smooth, casual - but the way his eyes darken tells me he isn't buying it.

Billy tilts his head, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. His eyes never leave mine, yet he pinpoints his target with irritating precision. "The pack of King Size Marlboro Reds sticking out of your back pocket."

The way he says it so matter-of-fact strikes a nerve, his confidence grating against me like sandpaper. He's not guessing. He knows. Knows exactly what brand, exactly where they are, like he's already taken inventory of my bad habits. Like he's daring me to lie about it.

Heat prickles at the back of my neck, irritation curling in my chest, but I don't let my expression slip. I just stand there, jaw tight, as if that might somehow stop him from being right.

My fingers twitch.

So, he smokes. Of course, he does. The way he says describes the exact brand tells me he's familiar, that he knows the bite of the first inhale, the slow burn of nicotine in his lungs.

A slow beat passes.

I arch a brow, keeping my expression steady, but my throat is tight. I can feel his gaze, watching my every move, waiting for my reaction. Slowly, I reach around, my fingers brushing against the worn cardboard of the pack. I pull it free with an easy slowness, letting the moment stretch, refusing to break eye contact as I bring it forward, my lighter cool and solid against my palm. The second my fingers loosen, Billy moves.

His hand catches mine as he takes them, rough skin scraping against my palm. It's fleeting - barely a touch - but it leaves something cold in its absence.

The word 'smug' doesn't even begin to describe the satisfaction that dances across his features. "You don't get to sit tomorrow out," he says, his voice dark yet velvety with something that could almost be amusement. "You'll work until I say you're done."

I ball my fists at my sides, my knuckles turning white, trying to ignore the way my pulse quickens at the commanding edge of his voice.

"Understood?"

I glare at him, my jaw clenched tight, fire flaring behind my eyes. I'm trembling. Whether it's from the cold or something else, I don't know. But I'm not backing down. Not from him. "Whatever."

Billy's jaw ticks, a flash of something darker crossing his face - something that feels dangerous. His stare pins me in place, a silent challenge, like he's daring me to test him.

"Do you understand?" he repeats, his voice, sharp and insistent. A dare in his eyes that practically begs me to defy him. Though, at the same time, taring every ounce of fight I had away from me.

A beat of silence stretches between us, thick and heavy. My heart pounds, echoing through my ears.

Through clenched teeth, I finally give in, "Yes."

His lips curl into a small, satisfied smile, but there's nothing warm about it. "Good," he says, his voice softer now, but still laced with an authority that leaves me feeling exposed. "Now get inside."

He waits for me to make the first move, his stupid eyes locked on to mine. I turn to walk away, trying to shake off the strange, heated tremor in my chest.

He's gonna regret humiliating me like that.

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟑,𝟏𝟗𝟓

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐍𝐢𝐧𝐞 – 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭

[xamiah]

𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐀 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 - 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐁𝐚𝐥𝐥

𝐋𝐲𝐝𝐢𝐚'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

'𝐈 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐭, 𝐦𝐲 𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐩. 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐭. 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐢𝐭.'

___

The next morning, I'm jolted awake by a sharp, blaring trumpet. Its ear-bleeding cry slicing through the thin walls of our cabin like a knife, yanking me from the clutches of sleep with a force that feels almost violent. My eyes snap open, my heart hammering. This time there's no questioning where I am - no forgetting this hell.

A groan escapes my lips. Outside, the world is already awake. Voices rise in a blend of chatter and laughter, carefree and full of an energy I can't summon. I roll onto my side and pull the blanket over my head, clinging to the last vestiges of warmth and solitude. It's useless. The noise is relentless, a reminder that no matter how much I wish I could sink into the mattress and disappear, the day has begun - with or without me.

With a resigned sigh, I push the blanket away and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The floor is unforgivingly cold, sending a sharp jolt through my feet that only worsens the stiffness in my muscles. Every inch of me aches from the previous day, a dull soreness settled deep in my bones. But I don't let it show. Weakness, I've learned, is an open invitation for others to take advantage. And I refuse to give anyone that satisfaction.

I wait for the others to filter out the room before discreetly changing, my fingers moving on autopilot as I dress myself and tie my shoes. My mind lagging behind, still clouded by exhaustion and the remnants of a restless sleep.

By the time I step outside, the sun is already creeping higher, casting long shadows across the worn dirt paths. A crowd has begun to gather near the main building, a collection of bodies shifting and stretching, shaking off the last dregs of sleep. I spot Rachel standing off to the side with her usual group, arms crossed, her expression hovering somewhere between boredom and mild amusement.

"Morning," she mutters without looking at me.

"Morning," I reply, my voice hoarse.

Before I can fully wake up, Mr Hargrove... well... Billy, strides into the center of the group, his voice cutting through the morning haze like a whip. Of course we're with him again. Orders spill from his lips in that sharp, no-nonsense tone all of them seem to have mastered. Today's activity: basketball.

We're corralled toward the indoor gym, which, like everything else here, looks like it's seen better days. The walls are faded and peeling, the air thick with the scent of old sweat and varnished wood. The floorboards groan beneath our weight as we shuffle inside, and I don't miss the way the teams have already been divided. It's the same pattern, the same unspoken rule that dictates everything here: Good kids versus Bad. Us against them.

I exhale sharply, my jaw tightening. They're doing this on purpose. Of course they are.

The game starts with an almost immediate intensity, sneakers squeaking against the scuffed floor as the ball moves between hands like a live wire. But it's not just a game - not really. There's an edge to every movement, an aggression simmering beneath the surface that turns every pass, every block, into something more.

It doesn't take long before the shoving starts. At first, it's subtle - an elbow here, a little too much force there. Then it escalates. Every time one of us tries to make a play, one of them is there, shoving back, cutting us off with smug grins that dig under my skin like splinters.

Unsurprisingly, they're not as goody-goody as they seem.

I grit my teeth and push back harder, my frustration growing with each second. The ball moves fast, frustration mounting with every blocked shot, every stolen pass. My breath comes quicker, my pulse hammering in my ears. I refuse to let them win.

And then it happens.

I lunge for the ball, fingers grazing its surface, ready to make my move. But before I can gain control, a sharp shove slams into my side, knocking me off balance. Instinct kicks in before thought - I shove back, harder than intended, my feet nearly slipping out from under me with the force of it.

"Watch it, freak!" I shout over the shrill whistle as it attempts to cut through the chaos.

My eyes lock onto the guy who shoved me - a tall, arrogant-looking prick with a smirk plastered across his face, like he's enjoying every second of this.

"Lydia!" Billy's voice slices through the gym, sharp and commanding. "Watch the fouls!"

My frustration boils over. "He shoved me first!" I bite back, my voice louder than I intended.

The guy shrugs, all innocence and indifference, and something inside me snaps.

Of course, Hargrove doesn't care. "Doesn't matter who started it," he says, his tone clipped. "You keep it up, and you're out."

I glare at him, my pulse a wild, erratic rhythm in my veins. Swallowing the words I want to scream, I force a nod, but inside, I seethe.

The game resumes, but the air is thick with tension. The ball moves like a pulse through the court, the score climbing, every point another tether pulling me closer to the edge.

And then, in the final moments, the ball ends up in my hands.

Time slows.

I take off down the court, my vision tunneling on the hoop. This is my chance. This is it. I can feel it.

But he's already there.

The same guy, standing in my way, smug as ever. I leap, arms extending, my shot leaving my hands. It sails - then bounces off the rim. The whistle blows. Game over.

The loss sits heavy in my chest, frustration clawing its way up my throat. I turn away, snatching my water bottle, my breaths uneven.

And then, his voice.

"Hey, nice try."

I know sarcasm when I hear it.

My vision narrows. My body once again moves before my brain can stop it. My fist connects with his face. A sharp, satisfying crunch splits the silence.

Blood. Shock. Laughter and Gasps.

"Lydia!"

Billy's hand clamps around my arm, yanking me back. His strikingly strong grip is tight, furious. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"He-"

"I don't care what he did." His voice is ice. "You do not do that. Do you understand me?"

I clench my jaw, my pulse still thrumming with adrenaline. But the look in his eyes tells me there's no room for argument.

"You're benched," he says finally, his tone like stone. "For the rest of the day."

I want to care. I should care. But instead, all I feel is relief.

No activities? Hell yeah!

Let them have their stupid games. I don't want any part of it.

Though, the rest of the day drags, slow and suffocating. I sit, watching the others go through the motions of forced fun, the sun baking the earth beneath them. By the time evening falls, exhaustion settles deep in my bones.

After dinner, I head back to the cabin, drawn only by the promise of a shower, of washing away the grime of the day. The water is lukewarm, but it's enough.

As I step back outside, the night cooler now, something stops me.

Laughter.

Low. Muffled. Coming from behind the cabin.

I pause, listening.

A mix of voices - girls, maybe a boy or two. Trying to be quiet. Failing.

Curiosity tugs at me.

And before I can think better of it, I move toward the sound.

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝟏,𝟒𝟗𝟔

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐄𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 – 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐲 & 𝐂𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐬

[xamiah]

𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥 - 𝐉𝐨𝐞 𝐆𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐠 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 (𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖)

___

𝐉𝐨𝐞’𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐉𝐨𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐟𝐚𝐫 𝐝𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐞𝐱, 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥-𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐜. 𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐚 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐉𝐨𝐞 𝐆𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐠 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥.

___

Kink was never my thing. Not in the handcuffs and safe-word way. Not until I met you. Y/n L/n. You were chaos in a cheap skirt. You were the embodiment of a bad idea, and God help me, I wanted to taste every consequence.

I used to think I only came alive when someone bled. When I controlled the moment their eyes dimmed. But then I had you - and you didn’t die. No, you came. And in that moment, you made me realize there’s a different kind of release. You made me ravenous. Addicted. Starving for you.

It wasn’t love at first sight. That’s the difference.

You didn’t spike my interest when you walked into Mooney’s looking for a job. Just another broke, pretty girl with zero taste in literature and even less regard for showing up on time. Lazy. Loud. Smug. I should’ve fired you on the spot.

But I didn’t.

Because you made everything harder - my job, my patience, my zipper. You were a disruption I could feel in my spine. The way your skirt clung, the way your lip curled when I corrected your shelving - it was like you wanted to be a problem. Like you wore irritation as perfume.

And then came your ‘brilliant’ idea: a reopening party for Mooney’s, to celebrate the shops ‘brand-new look’. Cheap booze, worse music, people pretending to care. I hated every second.

Except you.

I made you stay behind to clean. It was your stupid idea, after all - this little party, your attempt at ‘rebranding’. So, of course, the mess was yours.

You hated it. Muttering curses under your breath, knocking over wine bottles like they offended you personally. Bitter. Sloppy. Beautiful.

But your eyes - God, your eyes - they stayed sharp. Alive. Daring me to say something. Daring me to stop watching.

Drunk, yes. But defiant. Always defiant.

And maybe that’s when it started. The shift. The pull. The need to have you, to fix you, to own whatever it was inside you that refused to bow.

So I kissed you.

At the time, I told myself it was to shut you up, but the truth is more dangerous.

Then we fucked. Y/n, we fucked like animals - right next to the cash register, bent over the table. Your moans echoing off the shelves like music no one else deserved to hear but me.

It became a ritual. A filthy, delicious, secret routine. You call it ‘fuck buddies’. You’re so casual with your words. So careless. But I’m not. I can’t let myself get too attached. I’m not sure what I’d do if someone else tried to touch you.

Because when we fuck, it’s not love. It’s war. You look at me with those slutty, glassy eyes - like you want to be ruined. And I oblige. I pound into you like it’s punishment.

And it is.

You smile through it, but your eyes betray you. There’s fear there. And you like that fear. Don’t you?

Are you scared of me, Y/n?

You should be.

You tied yourself to this bed. You don’t know it, but I already wrapped a metaphorical rope weeks ago. You come to work late, dressed like a fucking dare. Short skirt. Attitude. You flirt with customers like I’m not watching - like I wouldn’t kill a man with my bare hands if he so much as breathes your name in a tone I don’t like.

And now, here you are. Back where you belong, finally quiet, finally obedient, spread out across my bed like something I paid for. Your wrists are bound above your head, wrapped in satin because rope burns and bruises. I want your body perfect when I ruin it.

The irony, right? I’m always trying to protect the thing I’m about to destroy.

You look up at me with those ruined eyes, mascara smudged, lips swollen from the way I’ve kissed you like I want to tear the taste of other men off your tongue. And maybe I do. Maybe I’d rather rip it out than hear you use it on anyone else.

I slide my hand between your legs and you’re soaked, aching, twitching. The scent of you is enough to make me dizzy, drunk.

“Joe~” You say my name like a taunting plea, and I want to hurt you for it. I want to fuck that smug defiance out of your body until you can’t remember how to look at me like I’m something beneath you. Until you cry just because I stopped touching you. I want to be your pain and your relief. Your punishment and your reward.

And so I take.

I press inside you with a single, brutal thrust, and it’s like being home again. Tight, hot, familiar - but never boring. You wrap around me like a secret I’ve kept too long. You gasp, and I grip your thigh, forcing it wider as I drive in again, harder this time. I’m not making love to you. I’m not showing affection. I’m staking a claim. I fuck you with the kind of rage that comes from being helpless. You made me feel powerless, and now I’m going to show you exactly how much power I really have.

You moan, and it’s not soft - it’s filthy. Desperate. You want it rough. You told me that. Over and over. You said it turned you on when I grabbed your throat. When I called you names. You said it made you feel alive. So why should I feel guilty for giving you exactly what you begged for?

I wrap my hand around your throat. Not hard. Just enough to make your eyes widen, your breath catch, your walls clench around me like a fucking vice. You look divine like this. Lost. Consumed. Yours is a body built to suffer for me. To worship me. And I worship back - with every thrust, every growl, every degrading thing I whisper in your ear, I’m building a church from the wreckage of our hate.

“You’re mine.” I growl, tightening my grip just enough to make you gasp. “Mine to use. Mine to ruin. Say it - tell me who fucking owns you.”

Your lips part, but nothing escapes. Your eyes roll back, lost in the brink. You unravel completely as I laugh, the sound cruel and electric. If my hands weren’t around your throat, you’d be screaming my name into the dark.

I don’t stop.

Your body shakes beneath me, hypersensitive and used, but I can’t stop. I’m too far gone. You don’t get to finish and leave me behind, baby. I own every moment. Every twitch. Every breath.

And now? I want it all.

I squeeze harder. You’re gasping now - just barely. Your nails claw at the sheets in jagged lines. You’re beautiful like this. Terrified. Alive.

I stop thinking. I just move. Thrust and tighten and watch your mouth fall open wider, your body slackening, your eyes starting to lose focus. It’s raw. Perfect. It’s mine.

Until-

You go still.

Not soft. Not satisfied.

Still.

Like a switch flipped. Like someone yanked the cord out of the wall and the lights went out.

I freeze. The air turns to ice in my lungs. My hand snaps back from your throat like I’ve touched a live wire. You’re not looking at me anymore. Not really. You’re staring past me. Through me.

Eyes glassy. Lips parted. Chest not rising. Not falling. Just… nothing.

I can’t hear anything but my own pulse, loud and wrong and hammering in my ears.

No. No. No. No. No. No.

“Y/n.” The name barely escapes. My voice cracks in half. “Baby?”

Nothing.

My heart punches up into my throat. My dick goes dead. I slap your cheek. Once. Again. “Come on,” I whisper. “Wake up. Come on.”

You don’t stir.

Panic barrels in - thick, wet, choking me from the inside. I lunge for your wrists, hands fumbling, slick with sweat. The knots won’t budge. “Fuck, wake up- please-” I’m cursing, begging, yanking at the ties like they’ll come loose if I just want it hard enough. “Please, I didn’t mean to - I didn’t mean - fuck, fuck!”

I press my fingers to your neck to check for a pulse. I can’t feel anything. My hands are trembling too much. I try your chest. Nothing. Still. Unmoving. Unforgiving.

My stomach flips, empties, eats itself. No!

Not like this.

Not again.

Not you.

I stumble back, hit the wall like I’ve been fucking shot. My knees give out. I slide down, shaking, useless. Naked. Cold. Heart clawing at my ribs like it’s trying to escape.

But then-

Your chest rises. Just a little. Barely. A breath.

I let out a sound I don’t recognize. Not a laugh. Not a sob. Something in between, like my body doesn’t know what to do with the relief crashing through it.

You’re breathing. You’re breathing!

I crawl over to you, hands slipping on the floor. I don’t even know what I’m doing until I’m next to you, touching you. Not hard. Not rough. Just needing the contact, needing to feel you warm. Alive. Still mine.

I press a kiss to your face. Your neck. Your chest. My lips are shaking. My hands won’t stop. I whisper, “I’m sorry,” even though I don’t know if that’s true.

I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just wanted more. I always want more. I need more. And when it’s you? There’s no bottom to it.

You were enjoying it. You were mine. I was inside you and it was perfect… until I pushed too far. Like I always fucking do.

And now I’m here. Fully exposed. Shaking. Watching the only person who ever made me feel alive nearly die at my hands.

All because I couldn’t control myself.

All because you make me lose control.

And the worst part?

Now I know that I love you.

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝟏,𝟔𝟗𝟓

___

𝐀𝐍: 𝐇𝐢 𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭! 𝐈’𝐦 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬, 𝐬𝐨 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐲! 𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞.

[xamiah]

𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐀 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐢𝐱 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞

𝐋𝐲𝐝𝐢𝐚'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

'𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐩 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐣𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐬. 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞... 𝐬𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞.'

___

The rest of the day drags like a slow, suffocating punishment. This place has a way of stretching time, making every hour feel twice as long, every task designed to grind us down. Archery, rope courses, some pathetic trust-building exercise - one pointless activity after another, all under the guise of 'fun'.

No one's buying it.

I keep my head down, doing just enough to avoid trouble, but my mind won't let go of earlier - the run, the near escape, that brief, intoxicating taste of freedom before it all came crashing down.

By the time supper rolls around, all I want is to eat in silence and pretend I don't exist. But Nightwing doesn't work like that.

"Lydia."

The second I step into the cafeteria, a sharp voice cuts through the noise.

I look up, stomach twisting. One of the camp leaders - a broad, stocky guy with a blank expression - stands by the door. He doesn't need to say anything else. I already know what's coming.

"Cafeteria duty," he says, voice flat. "You've got plates to wash."

Anger rises sharp and fast in my chest, my body practically vibrating with the urge to snap back, to tell him to go fuck himself. But I don't. Not because I don't want to, but because I already know how this plays out. I've been here before, in places like this, under the control of people like him. They want a reaction. They want the satisfaction of knowing they got under my skin.

I won't give them that.

So instead, I nod stiffly and trail behind him, boots heavy against the floor as he leads me toward the kitchen.

The cafeteria noise fades behind me, replaced by the sterile hum of fluorescent lights. The air is thick with industrial soap, stale food, and grease cooked deep into the walls. Workers move around me in silence, barely sparing a glance.

The leader gestures at the sink, stacked high with dirty trays. "Get to work." Then he's gone.

I roll up my sleeves, plunge my hands into freezing water, and start scrubbing. The motions are mindless, automatic, but my thoughts won't settle. They circle back, over and over, replaying every second of my failed escape - the trees blurring past me, the wind slicing my skin, the rush of it all. And then the crash. The failure. The humiliation of being dragged back like a lost cause.

I grit my teeth and scrub harder.

Time blurs. Plates. Rinse. Stack. Repeat. The hum of the lights drills into my skull. My arms ache, my back stiffens, but I don't stop. If I stop, I'll think.

And I don't want to think.

Suddenly, I hear voices. Low, hushed. At first, they're just background noise. But something about them makes me pause. They aren't the usual kitchen chatter. They're closer. Sharper. Private. Like an exchange never meant to be overheard.

My hands still in the soapy water, and without thinking, I tilt my body closer to the doorway, eyes drawn to the faint crack between the door and its frame.

I don't know why I linger - curiosity, maybe, or just something about the moment that holds me in place.

Through the crack, I catch a glimpse of the eerily empty cafeteria. The silence is thick, almost waiting. Then, that familiar voice cuts through it, soft, teasing.

"Well, well, well... if it isn't Billy Hargrove."

Tina. The obnoxiously cheerful camp worker from yesterday, the one who greeted us with a lazy lean against the counter, arms crossed, smirk brimming with secrets. Her voice drips with challenge, amusement - like she holds all the power in the world.

'Billy's' reaction is instant. I watch the shadowed silhouette tense up, a flicker of discomfort in his stance. Then, a ray of light catches his face - his expression smoothing over just before recognition slams into him like a freight train.

And then, just as fast, it slams into me.

Hargrove?

The name lands sharp and jarring, unfamiliar until it clicks. Billy Hargrove... so that's his name.

I don't even realize I'm holding my breath until he speaks.

"Tina?"

His voice is rough, like the name scrapes against his throat on the way out. For a second, he just stands there, frozen in place, before exhaling sharply and rubbing a hand over his face.

Tina's grin spreads, slow and knowing. She tilts her head, stepping forward just slightly - close enough to test the space between them, to see if he'll flinch. "Took you long enough to recognise me."

Billy's reaction is immediate. His shoulders go rigid, jaw tightening just enough to be noticeable. His hands settle at his sides, fingers twitching once before stilling. He looks at her the way someone might look at gum stuck to the bottom of their shoe - mildly inconvenienced, vaguely disgusted, but ultimately too tired to deal with it.

"Oh god," he mutters, voice dry, "please don't tell me you got a job here because of me."

Tina gasps, pressing a hand to her chest like he's just wounded her. But the smirk never wavers, and the way she moves - just a step closer, just enough to make it feel intentional - tells me exactly what kind of game she's playing.

"Of course not, silly," she coos, her voice dripping with syrupy sweetness. A beat of silence, then: "I'm just... here to have fun."

Fun. The word lingers in the air, stretched out, deliberately coy. It makes my skin crawl. I don't catch everything she says next, but I don't need to - the way she leans in, the way she tilts her chin, the way her gaze flickers up at him through her lashes - it's all way too much.

Billy doesn't move. Doesn't even blink. If anything, his expression flattens further, like he's already exhausted just standing here.

"Tina. Look." His tone is blunt, final. "It didn't happen in high school. It's not gonna happen now."

Burn.

For a second, she just stares at him. Then, with an exaggerated groan, she throws her hands up. "Ugh! Always the killjoy, aren't you?"

I press my tongue against the inside of my cheek, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. Tina shifts her weight onto one leg, her arms loose at her sides, fingers twitching slightly like she's waiting for Billy to give her something to work with. When he doesn't, her smile falters - just for a second - before she plasters it back on, all teeth, all performance.

Billy, on the other hand, might as well be made of stone. His expression doesn't change, his arms stay limp at his sides, and the only sign that he's even mildly engaged is the slow, controlled exhale through his nose.

The silence stretches. Too long. Too awkward.

Tina lets out a breathy laugh, shifting forward like she's trying to close some invisible gap between them. "God, you really don't make this easy, do you?"

Billy blinks. Just once. If there was an award for the least interested man on the planet, he'd be holding the trophy right now.

I almost snort but clamp my mouth shut, because this - whatever this is - is a train wreck I can't look away from.

Eventually, I step away from the door, forcing a breath into my lungs. The dishwater has gone cold, my fingertips pruned from soaking too long. I rub them against my shirt, but the sensation lingers, like something beneath my skin won't settle.

I tell myself it's nothing. Just another name, another face, another camp leader playing his part.

But as I reach for another plate, his name gnaws at me.

Billy Hargrove.

It doesn't fit.

Not the way he acts - the stiff posture, the barked orders, the constant need to remind everyone who's in charge. 'Mr Hargrove' suits him better, the way he wears that stupid authority like a second skin, like this whole camp is his kingdom and we're just here to fall in line.

But 'Billy'?

Billy is some loud, cocky guy who slouches in his seat and grins like he owns the room. Billy gets into trouble. Billy is trouble. The name feels too reckless, too easygoing - too boyish for the man who prowls around camp, arms crossed, jaw tight, looking at all of us like we're just another problem to deal with.

I rinse the plate, watching the water swirl down the drain. The name gnaws at me, picking at something I can't quite place.

Billy Hargrove.

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝟏,𝟓𝟕𝟗

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 - 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐁𝐚𝐥𝐥