The tables look like picnic benches at first glance, but they’re wrong on closer inspection—longer than they should be, bolted to the floor, spaced just close enough that everyone has to sit shoulder to shoulder. Efficient. Maximum capacity, minimum movement.

  The room smells like a hospital trying to pretend it isn’t one. Bleach. Disinfectant. Something sharp enough to sting the back of my throat. It doesn’t belong with the wood or the light filtering in through the high windows, and that tells me more than anyone’s said out loud so far.

  They let us settle before they speak. That’s deliberate. People behave better once they think they’ve been given a moment.

  Chairs scrape. Someone laughs too loudly. I count exits instead—not that I’d make it very far if I decided to run, but it’s nice to pretend there are options.

  I sit beside two girls who look like they’ve seen too much. One’s positioned slightly in front of the other, protective. Like if I disrupt their little bubble, I might get stabbed with a makeshift shank. I decide pretty quickly that playing it cool is my best option. There’s strength in numbers, and these two look like survivors.

  …And the redhead’s kind of hot.

  Focus.

  It’s in the middle of this internal debate that the camp counselors finally open their mouths, voices dripping with fake care and freely given concern—the kind that’s practiced. It makes my stomach turn.

  “This is your orientation,” the woman at the front says, hands folded, voice calm. “We’ll go over expectations, daily structure, and privileges.”

  She doesn’t say rights. No one ever does in places like this.

  Garden work. Farming. Fixing fence posts. Shoveling stalls. Taking care of animals.

  She lists them like opportunities. Like we should be grateful.

  No one gets to choose. Assignments are handed out.

  Shit-shoveling duty.

  All twelve people in my row.

  I guess it rotates.

  Or it doesn’t.

  The room grows louder with every passing second—groans, angry voices, chairs shifting. The sound swells and echoes through the cafeteria, and just like that, I know we’ve lost something we won’t get back.

  One of the counselors is handed an air horn.

  It cuts through the noise like a blade. I clap my hands over my ears and wait for the silence to crash down.

  “And just like that,” she says cheerfully, “happy campers, you’ve lost lunch privileges.”

  A pause. Smiles all around.

  “Now that order’s established,” she continues, “we’ll move on to expectations.”

  At that point, I zone out. It’s nothing I haven’t heard a million times.

  Be quiet.Be respectful.Don’t ask questions.Don’t run.Don’t hope.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Christmas isn’t coming this year.

  Same old shit.

  Just like that, the assembly ends. Everyone looks like they’ve aged ten years, and it’s not even noon. Progress.

  I walk over to the two girls and flash what I hope passes for a charming smile, reminding myself not to come on too strong.

  “Hey. I’m Marcus. Guess we’re on shit-cleaning duty together.”

  The redhead looks me up and down, like she’s trying to peel back layers I’d rather keep intact.

  It’s working more than I’d like.

  “Nice dress, hot stuff,” she says. “It’s a good look on you.”

  The goth-looking one laughs like no one’s watching.

  “Aww, you think I’m cute,” I say, twirling the dress slightly. “It really brings out my self-loathing. Thanks for noticing.”

  The redhead shakes her head and smirks. Brownie points.

  “You know,” I add, “normal humans say their names when making introductions.”

  “Right. Yes. Humans.” She sighs. “I’m definitely one of those. I’m Renna. This is Vaelan.” She jerks her chin toward the girl beside her. “So what do you want? We aren’t interested in relationships while we’re here, pretty boy. If you’ve got something to offer, be straightforward.”

  My mask shatters. The smile dies.

  I study both of them like they’re a pair of unfinished experiments.

  “Nothing to offer,” I say. “Just a small piece of information you two geniuses missed. In exchange, you let me into your very exclusive two-person girl band.”

  I pause.

  “I’m trying to get out of here. To do that, I’m going to need help. Quid pro quo.”

  I offer my hand to the goth—Vaelan, I think. She studies me for a moment, then nods once at Renna.

  “How about the information,” she says softly, “and guaranteed protection from the creeps?”

  I consider it, watching her poker face. To my surprise, she doesn’t break. She’s not as fragile as she wants people to think.

  This should be fun.

  “Deal.”

  “So, Mr. Know-It-All,” Renna says, eyeing me like she’s weighing whether I’m worth the air I’m using, “what priceless information do you have for us?”

  Fair.

  “They’re lying about rotation,” I say quietly. “You don’t move up. You just move sideways. They want to see which chore you struggle with the most before you break.”

  Renna’s jaw tightens. She doesn’t argue. That tells me I hit something real.

  “Watch who gets water privileges,” I add. “It’s not the hardest workers—it’s the quiet ones.”

  I glance around the room, lowering my voice.

  “The ones who’ll trade your name for an extra cup. Facilities like this always have a punishment room.”

  I meet her eyes.

  “And trust me—you don’t want to find out where it is.”

  Vaelan cocks her head, like she’s seeing the whole picture instead of just the pieces. Whatever she puts together, she doesn’t say. Her eyes stay on me, steady and unblinking.

  I don’t like that.

  “How do you know so much about this place?” she asks.

  Yeah. Suspicious. Not good.

  I adjust quickly. “Been there. Done that,” I say. “I’m an orphan. Got dead-parents jokes for days.”

  Something shifts in her expression—not pity, but recognition. The tension eases just a fraction.

  “I get that,” she says. “I was in foster care before this.”

  That lands harder than I expect.

  Renna clears her throat and looks me over one last time.

  “Okay, orphan. What cabin are you assigned to?”

  I lift an eyebrow. “Don’t you pay attention? The twelve people we’re stuck with on chore duty? Yeah—those are our bunkmates.” I gesture vaguely behind me. “Our future best friends. We’re stuck with them until we get released.”

  Renna lets out a harsh laugh. Something wild flickers to the surface before she reins it back in.

  “That’s hilarious,” she says. “You think we’re getting out of here.”

  She steps closer, lowering her voice.

  “With our backgrounds? You might as well kiss your freedom goodbye.”

  She glances around the cafeteria—at the bolted tables, the counselors, the exits that don’t matter.

  “This place doesn’t do releases,” she says quietly.

  Huh.

  That’s something I’ll have to unravel later.

  I can’t help but wonder how she knows so much. Gain trust first—then dig. Secrets never stay buried for long, and something tells me the ones she’s holding are the key to our salvation.