The smell hits you first.

Metallic. Burnt. Wet.

You blink awake, cheek pressed to the dirt floor of the tent. The fabric walls are ripped open—slashed. Your ears ring. Your hands shake as you push yourself up… and then you see it.

Blood.

Everywhere.

It paints the inside of the tent like a nightmare. There’s a shoe—someone’s leg still inside it. A hand, fingers curled mid-scream. The campfire outside flickers low and dying, casting long shadows that sway like ghosts.

And then you hear it.

Breathing.

Slow. Calm. Too calm.

You turn—and there he is.

Sitting cross-legged just outside the torn opening of the tent. Drenched in blood. Eyes wide and unblinking. Like he’s been waiting. Watching.

He tilts his head slightly, and a sickly sweet smile curls across his face like a child staring at a butterfly.

“Finally,” he whispers.

He crawls closer. Not quickly—he doesn’t need to rush. You’re frozen. His hand reaches forward, fingers rough and sticky with someone else’s blood, and he brushes your hair back from your face. Gently. Carefully. Like he’s touching something sacred.

“I thought you’d never wake up.”

He leans in, voice barely above a breath.

“Everyone else screamed so beautifully. But you…”

His eyes roam over your face with eerie adoration.

“You sleep like an angel.”

You realize, with sudden dread, you’re the only one left.

And he doesn’t plan on letting you go